


Show Me Your Love

by lemon_meringue



Series: the Collar Full collection [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom Tony Stark, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Nervous Peter Parker, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Sub Peter Parker, Unbeta'd, Wade Wilson is a Good Bro, im sorry i couldn't think of a plot without angst, no officer i've never seen a beta before in my life, read those two tags again so you know im serious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18985222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_meringue/pseuds/lemon_meringue
Summary: based on/after my one shot "Collar Full"show me your love, your lovegimme more but it's not enoughshow me your love, your lovebefore the world catches up'cause there's always time for second guessesI don't wanna knowif you're gonna be the death of methat's how I wanna goPeter Parker used to be pining for his ex-neighbors, Tony and Steve Stark-Rogers.Now he's pretty sure he's in love with them, and it's kind of a massive fucking problem.





	1. Cool Down, Warm Up

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song ‘Collar Full’ by panic! at the disco, which I listen to religiously. This fic is based on a one shot and will have *some minor* references to the drabble collection that goes with it, but you probably don’t /have/ to read “Collar Full” to understand. I mean, I would recommend it, but you can get by w/o it. 
> 
> It’s finally happening!! That plotty fic I’ve been talking about!! A fic with a story!! However, don’t let the [eventual] length or the angst fool you—this still boils down to self indulgent porn. Alternatively: I couldn't think of any better plot so this is just Peter being anxious and overthinking things with lots of porn and generally unnecessary angst. 
> 
> Thanks so so much to all the beautiful people who gave (and continue to give!!) me such great feedback on the original one shot and the drabbles collection, your encouragement gives me life and I love you <3 <3 <3
> 
> All that excessive note said: thanks for reading and I hope you like it!!!

It’s raining.

 

And it’s raining hard.

 

The rain’s been coming down off and on for the last three days. There was a thunderstorm yesterday, Peter remembers, but other than that the intensity has varied and usually there’s not more than a few hours where it’s not at least drizzling.

 

However, despite the rain, April is working it’s magic and all he needed to be comfortable earlier was a hoodie and umbrella. He forgot his wallet at home, though, so he can’t take the subway or even catch a bus like he normally would, and he’s reduced to walking to Steve and Tony’s house. It’s not actually that far, maybe twenty minutes, but there’s a puddle every two steps and his umbrella does little to shield his legs anyways, so his feet are definitely going to get soaked.

 

He pushes open the door to the Daily Bugle’s building, and stands under the sill outside for a moment to take out his umbrella. The world smells good, in an empty kind of way. Like the rain is washing away everything else, and there’s nothing but mud and wet trees and wet concrete to fill the air. It’s refreshing.

 

With a deep breath, Peter starts out his walk. It takes barely two minutes for his shoes and the bottoms of his jeans to get soaked. By the time he reaches the halfway mark, standing at a stop light with a small crowd, his pants are damp almost up to his knees from the slant of the rain. It’s making him shiver, now, but he tries not to mind.

 

The walk light blinks on and Peter shuffles across the street with the crowd. Across the intersection, he sees a woman with an afro of curly black hair holding the hand of a little boy, his bright green raincoat reflecting the red of the stop lights. Peter watches them walk, watches the way the woman smiles at the boy (her son? Family, probably) as he tries to stomp in all the puddles they pass. It makes Peter wonder, just a little, about his own future.

 

Which, woah. Ok.

 

He doesn’t know, but he hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep to be thinking this hard, so he quickly pushes the thoughts away and instead anticipates dinner. It’s kind of a routine of theirs. As often as they can, whenever all three men are off work (or, more like Peter and Tony, because Steve doesn’t really _have_  to be anywhere, ever, what with his freelance career), they’ll cook supper together at the husbands' house. He hopes Steve and Tony will want something hot today. Preferably some kind of soup. Soup with lots of carrots and spices and possibly some warm bread, too.

 

Maybe Peter’s just cold.

 

Probably.

 

He narrowly avoids what must be a five inch deep puddle, filling up a pothole just off the edge of the sidewalk. He tries walking on the curb for a while, his sleeve pulled over one hand so the handle of the umbrella doesn’t make him colder, his other hand stuffed into a soft pocket. The rain’s coming down a bit harder, now, and he sniffles, his nose running at the cold. It was just fine out in the morning, he thinks.

 

It’s alright. He’s not bitter about it (not too much).

 

He turns onto Steve and Tony’s street and picks up his pace a little, eager to get to warmth and dryness and the couple. And dinner. He passes along the road he has memorized by now; the grey-blue house, the one that’s kind of an awful shade of yellow, the one that’s a nice shade of yellow, the brown one, the pink (“salmon”, Steve had said once) one with a funky looking fence, and then he’s there.

 

The Stark-Roger’s front door greets him as he hustles up the two porch steps. His umbrella is compacted quickly and shoved into his small side bag without much consideration. He knocks twice, because he always does, but doesn’t wait a beat before turning the handle.

 

It’s warm and light as soon as he gets inside, and Peter breathes a sigh of relief. He has to carefully remove his shoes, due to how soaked they are, and as he pries them off his feet he calls out into the house.

 

“Someone’s breaking into your house, they’re gonna eat all your food!” He shouts. Tony’s voice comes a moment later from the hall off of the living room, making the boy smile.

 

“About damn time!” Peter grins at the reply, finishing removing his shoes and setting them on the door mat next to his bag. He’s kneeling down to peel off his socks when the husbands appear, passing the living room to greet him. Steve’s not wearing a shirt and Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever stop choking on his own spit when he sees that.

 

“What took you so long, kid?” The man asks, pulling a piece of lint off of Tony’s shoulder. Peter shrugs, rolling his drenched socks off his feet. It’s nice to be out of them, but he can’t imagine there’s anything attractive about it, and he cringes a little inside.

 

“Copy machine in Jameson’s office stopped working, he had to raise a little hell about it ‘till I got it fixed,” he explains, dropping his socks in his shoes and standing up. “Have any socks I could borrow?” He asks, stepping off the mat and feeling cold wood floors under his bare feet.

 

“Sure, gimme a sec,” Steve replies, walking back off down the hall. Peter calls a ‘thank you!’ after him, smiling at Tony. The man’s looking at him with crossed arms and slightly narrowed eyes.

 

“What?” Peter questions, narrowing his eyes back.

 

“Your boss is an asshole,” Tony says after a moment. Peter rolls his eyes to the side.

 

“He has his moments,” he sighs. Tony nods, eyebrows still up, then fixes Peter with a look that the boy can’t quite identify.

 

“That’s really not good for you. Maybe you should come work for me at Stark Industries,” the older man cracks a smirk as he speaks, and Peter scoffs.

 

“What are the benefits? Would I get a robot like Dum-E?” He grins, and Tony chuckles.

 

“Benefits? Hm, let’s see,” he pretends to think, stepping over to Peter and holding the boy’s chin in his fingers, tipping Peter’s head up towards him. “You get to have sex with the CEO,” he licks his lips, then presses a light kiss to Peter’s mouth. The younger smiles back, genuine this time, and looks up at Tony fondly.

 

“Sounds like a catch,” he murmurs. Steve returns a moment later, a pair of dry socks in his hands. They’re plain white but from the size they look like they might actually belong to Peter. Steve hands him the socks, smirking at the two of them. It’s then that Peter notices his wet jeans, and hums to himself.

 

“Your pants are wet, too,” Tony says, sounding like he’s thinking out loud. Peter looks up at him, and the man is staring at his legs with an expression Peter can’t figure out.

 

“You should probably take them off,” Steve adds, subconsciously wetting his lips. Peter blushes a little but smirks, nodding and undoing his belt.

“Makes sense,” he offers, sliding the jeans off. He puts the socks on, now in a hoodie and his boxers, while Tony grabs the pants from him and tosses them carelessly onto the floor. And then he’s moving, standing behind Peter. He wraps strong arms around the boy’s lithe waist and pulls him flush, back to chest, nosing into the base of Peter’s neck.

 

“So other than your boss being a dick, how was work?” Steve asks. He steps forward to stand in front of Peter, taking the boy’s hands in his. He runs his thumbs over the backs of Peter’s hands, bringing them up to his face and kissing each one. Then he kisses Peter’s palms, and all of his knuckles, and goes back to caressing with his thumbs.

 

Tony’s breath is hot on Peter’s neck, and he gives experimental little kitten licks to the unblemished skin. Then he drops his mouth, dragging his teeth and nipping at the boy’s throat, kissing and sucking and making Peter sigh.

 

“Um… f-fine, fine,” he manages, suddenly finding it hard to think. How is this always so easy for them? It’s completely unfair. Tony bites down and Peter closes his eyes and moans, soft and quiet, and Steve lets out a shaky breath that the boy can feel on his hands.

 

And then Steve is moving backwards, pulling Peter by the hands, and Tony walks with them, still holding the boy. They shuffle over to the couch and Peter yelps in surprise when Tony abruptly whips him around and falls onto the couch cushion, bringing Peter with him. The boy feels small in Tony’s lap, the man’s arms still tight on his middle. Steve let go of Peter’s hands when Tony turned them, and now he stands in front of them. He leans on the couch, one knee against the cushion beside Tony and Peter’s legs, bracing himself with one hand on the back.

 

He moves close, fingers coming up to trace Peter’s bottom lip and caress his cheek. The artist cups the boy’s face, and Peter breaks their tense eye contact to turn in and kiss Steve’s palm. The man smiles softly at him, looks at Tony for a moment, and pulls away.

 

Then he’s dropping to his knees, hands finding the hem of Peter’s boxers, and the boy swallows hard. Tony kisses his neck again, trailing his lips up and down the smooth expanse, nipping his earlobe. Peter sighs, settling his palms against Steve’s shoulders.

 

Tony’s hands slip under Peter’s hoodie and onto his hot, soft tummy as Steve works the boxers off him. Peter’s eyes flutter closed and he lets his head loll back against Tony’s shoulder. He lifts his hips to help out Steve, his heartbeat starting to speed up.

 

He’s already half hard when the artist lets his boxers pool around his ankles. Tony chuckles softly in his ear, his teeth finding a particularly soft spot on Peter’s neck as his fingers trace up the boy’s chest. The man’s hands ghost over smooth, pale skin, finding already hard pink buds and circling them slowly.

 

Peter whimpers at the sensation. His cheeks burn red knowing he’s naked from the waist down and the husbands are significantly more clothed.

 

Steve rests his hands on Peter’s legs just above his knees, gripping not especially hard but firm and grounding. He kisses the insides of Peter’s upper thighs, pressing his lips softly to the supple skin. Peter bites his lip to keep himself from moaning and a full-bodied shudder ripples through him.

 

“Pretty thing, are you cold?” Tony asks playfully. He nips the boy’s shoulder and gently pinches one of Peter’s nipples, sending a familiar buzz of pleasure through his chest and straight down to his cock. Peter blinks to try and coordinate himself while Steve peppers kisses to his thighs and hips and belly, exposed where his sweatshirt is lifted to accommodate Tony’s hands under it, avoiding where the boy is rapidly growing fully hard.

 

“I-I, ah, a l-little,” Peter manages breathily. He lets out short little pants, swallowing thickly and tensing under the actions of the two men. Tony smiles against his neck and Steve grins against his thigh.

 

“Why don’t we warm you up a bit, hm?” Tony offers coolly, but there’s teasing and a bit of lust in his tone. All Peter can do is nod and hope that Steve will put his mouth on him soon, because _shit_ , he’s really hard now.

 

Luckily, that doesn’t seem like a hardship for the artist. With a few more kisses to his creamy thighs and tummy, Steve gives a sudden, gentle kitten lick to the tip of Peter’s cock. The boy jerks at the motion, but he can’t really get anywhere in his position, and settles back quickly.

 

“Shh, that’s it. There you go, baby. Steve’s gonna make you feel good now,” Tony murmurs. He nibbles on Peter’s earlobe and starts to fondle the boy’s nearly swollen nipples. The younger squirms, his hands on Steve’s bare shoulders and holding tight. The older man grins up at him, keeping eye contact as he drags his tongue from the base of Peter’s cock up to the tip again, dipping into the boy’s slit and swirling around the head.

 

Peter moans freely at that and drops his head back again, closing his eyes. Tony mouths at his neck, and the smaller vaguely wonders how the hell he’s going to cover up those hickeys. He doesn’t care right now, though, because Steve’s tongue runs all over his length, the man leaving little kisses and enticing a steady flow of precome to leak from the boy’s tip at the teasing.

 

“Steve, S-Steve please,” he pleads. It earns him two smirks from the older men, and Tony pinches the pink nubs a little roughly, but it’s worth it. Because then Steve gives one more kiss to the divot of Peter’s hip, and takes the head of the boy’s length into his mouth. Peter groans, forcing himself not to buck up and only partially failing.

 

Steve smiles, swirling his tongue around and lapping up the precome from Peter’s tip. He takes him down a little further and backs off again, bobbing his head, each time taking more of the boy into his mouth. After a painfully long time of the slow, tentative movements, Steve has him down the the base. Peter sighs, but it turns into a moan when the older man sucks lightly, his mouth and back of his throat closing a little tighter.

 

“God, just look at you, honey. So pretty like this, such a cute boy,” Tony husks out. Peter whimpers at the praise, the compliments going right to his cock. Steve squeezes at Peter’s legs a little tighter, sucking again, harder this time. Peter mewls a little pitifully at that and he's finding it hard to breathe.

 

The wet heat of Steve’s mouth is _heavenly_. It’s perfect, hot and slick and the way his smooth tongue works up and down Peter’s shaft, flexing against his length, teasing at the tip when the artist bobs up. It sends thin waves of pleasure rolling through Peter and he feels hot all over. He’s hot under his hoodie; too hot, too goddamn hot. He knows he’s flushed pink all over and Tony’s fingers keep working at his nipples in a way that feels so good it borders painful, and Peter—well, Peter’s never lasted very long with blowjobs.

 

“Fuck babe, you look so good with his little cock in your mouth,” Tony says lowly. Steve moans at that and Peter feels the vibrations on his length and, _shit_ , he whimpers at the sensation. “Open your eyes, sweetheart, look at him,” the mechanic adds, dragging his teeth along Peter’s jaw to get his attention. “Go on,” he encourages.

 

Peter opens his eyes slowly, only managing to get to half lidded, and looks down.

 

Oh _fuck_.

 

Steve is looking back up at him, those absolutely piercing blue eyes shining, his blonde hair fallen a little over his forehead, flushed and lips gleaming. He moves down to take Peter all the way in, burying his nose in the curls at the base of the younger’s length, and doesn’t break eye contact as he does. Peter moans again, a broken sound forcing its way out of him.

 

He closes his eyes. The image of Steve on his knees with Peter completely inside his mouth is too much; if he watches the man, he’ll definitely be coming even faster.

 

Tony, however, isn’t having Peter’s efforts against that. One hand leaves the boy’s chest and hoodie, coming to cup his jaw and angle his head back down.

 

“Watch him, baby, come on. You know you’re so pretty like this, why don’t you tell Steve how good he looks?” The man prompts. Peter can feel him smirking against the side of his face and he whimpers, opening his eyes to look down at Steve again. The artist is still watching him, ready to lock eyes again (because of course he is, that bastard).

 

Peter has to bite his lip to turn his tortured groan into a needy keen as he looks down at the man.

 

“Y-you,” he starts, and shit, his voice is wrecked (he’s not even the one with a dick in his mouth), “you look so hot, Steve, f-fuck,” he breathes. Steve hums in approval and Peter knows he’d be smirking if he could, because the sound goes right to Peter’s cock quite literally, and the smaller boy moans brokenly.

 

Tony chuckles in his ear and rubs the nipple he still has access to. The thumb that holds Peter’s jaw slides up over his chin and bottom lip, rubbing the soft pink there before pushing into the younger’s mouth. Peter lets the digit in easily, tongue immediately going to greet it, lips closing to suck. Tony groans at that and pinches the hard bud under the boy’s hoodie.

 

Steve pulls off up to the tip and sucks hard around it, lapping at Peter’s slit and making him spill precome into the man’s mouth. The younger can’t stop himself from mewling at the actions and his hips jerk up slightly, his body desperate for more, for a _release_. The husbands seem to take pity on him tonight, because instead of backing off at the tell-tale signs that Peter’s getting close and dragging out the teasing, they up their game.

 

Steve takes him all the way down again. He hollows his cheeks and runs his tongue all along the boy’s shaft in that sosogood way. Tony sucks a hickey onto Peter’s jaw, his thumb pressing down under the boy’s tongue and making him salivate more, fingers playfully pinching and lightly flicking Peter’s nipples.

 

The younger can feel himself getting hotter and hotter, his toes curling and his stomach flexing as pressure grows and grows in his tummy. He’s jittery in his thighs and his fingers twitch where he’s still clinging to Steve’s shoulders, possibly even leaving bruises. He moans in shameless need and squeezes his eyes tighter.

 

The couple work him up more and more, blessedly not letting up or spontaneously slowing down, keeping the teasing to a minimum and focusing on Peter getting off.

 

Which. Fair enough, doesn’t take long at all.

 

At all.

 

Peter’s panting around the digit in his mouth in minutes, forcing his hips not to buck up and grateful that Steve is holding his thighs apart, because otherwise he’d be crushing the man’s head with how his legs try to squeeze together. Tony keeps whispering in his ear about how sweet and precious he is, how hot Steve looks with Peter in his mouth, what a vision they are. And Steve, _fuck_. Steve is so good with his mouth, this should be illegal. This should definitely be illegal. Shit, it’s not even fair.

 

At some point, Peter starts to try and get out warnings through his moaning, but the thumb in his mouth makes it a little difficult, so he resolves to frantically tapping on Steve’s shoulder and looking down at him through hooded, blurry (blurry? Blurry. Of course his eyes are tearing up. God, how they manage to get him like this all the time, always—it’s insane) eyes. Steve understands (when doesn’t he) and his eyes crinkle like he’d be smiling reassuringly if there wasn’t a dick in his mouth.

 

And then all the pressure that was bubbling up in Peter’s belly hits its peak and goes raging through him. He feels drowned in pleasure as his orgasm hits him, his body going rigid and a long, wrecked, feminine moan escaping him. He shakes through it, trembling as his climax rips through him, sending ropes of ivory come down Steve’s throat.

 

The artist swallows it all with skill and grace, milking Peter’s release from him until his body falls lax and he whimpers in sensitivity. It’s only then that Steve pulls of with a lewd pop, going right back to peppering butterfly kisses to the younger’s thighs and waist and tummy.

 

Tony takes his hand out of Peter’s hoodie and his thumb out of the boy’s mouth, holding him around his middle and nosing at his hair, kissing his cheek.

 

“There you are, sweetheart. So good for us, perfect boy, did that feel good?” Tony whispers, “Warmed up now?” The last bit is more playful but still soothing, coaxing Peter gently down from the high of his orgasm. The smaller boy huffs out a wet little giggle, smiling softly at him and nodding. He keeps his hands on Steve’s shoulders and looks down at the man, who’s pulling his boxers up slowly, still kissing his thighs.

 

“Thanks,” Peter mumbles. He's still a little dopey off his climax. He wonders, vaguely, if this is how it always is for everyone, or if that’s just the way the couple affect him—every single thing sending him to cloud nine. Steve smiles at him, face still a little flushed, lips still red, but the grin is genuine and sweet and makes Peter feel warm in his chest (in a less hot and bothered kind of way).

 

“Any time, baby.” The artist smirks. He and Tony work together to fix the younger boy’s boxers back around him, mostly on their own, as Peter's disoriented help isn't very helpful.

 

Steve sighs contentedly and hauls himself up, plopping down on the couch beside Tony as Peter situates himself to be sideways across the man’s lap. He stretches his bare legs out over Steve’s thighs and leans against Tony’s chest, hands falling to the bottom of the mechanic’s shirt and fiddling with the cotton hem.

 

He feels cloudy. Relaxed, for sure, like the tension of a rather (and, unfortunately, typical) stressful day has melted away. He breathes deeply, resting his head against Tony’s shoulder and watching Steve run his hands over Peter’s legs, flitting down to his ankles, cupping freshly socked feet and holding them. He takes one foot into his hands and digs his thumbs into the arch, just the right way that makes him relax as the knots are worked out (Peter tried doing it himself multiple times before, he can never get it right, always ending up hurting himself and giving up).

 

“How’d you get so soaked, anyways?” The artist asks suddenly (or, maybe not so suddenly, considering Peter’s new socks and lack of pants are right in the man’s lap).

 

“Yeah,” Tony tags on, “I thought your work was right by the subway?”

 

Peter shrugs, switching from the hem of Tony’s shirt to worrying one of the hood strings on his sweatshirt.

 

“It is, but I forgot my money.” He says nonchalantly. (He does that often, actually).

 

Steve frowns just a little, eyes still on Peter’s foot where he’s massaging up. “You should’ve called, Pete, we would’ve come and got you.” He switches feet and looks up with a pleased, open face at Peter’s content sigh. Steve’s mouth, Steve’s hands— what _isn’t_  magic on this man?

 

The younger boy just hums again. “It’s fine. Wasn’t that long of a walk, nothing I need to bug you guys about,” he muses, snuggling closer against Tony and crowding his knees against Steve’s stomach, stealing all the warmth he can. Tony holds him tighter and starts to absently rub the Peter’s arm that isn’t already against his chest, but scoffs nonetheless.

 

“Sweets, you never bug us. Literally ever. And you could get sick from walking in the rain with soaked shoes like that,” his light tone turns to scolding a bit at the end, and Peter blushes, squirming slightly.

 

“I’m fine, guys,” he mumbles, trying not to feel too complex about what both men have said. He fidgets with the frayed ends of the drawstrings. Steve sighs, resolving to simply rubbing his thumbs on Peter’s shins.

 

“You should get a bike,” he comments with a smirk. Peter snorts, blushing at where thoughts of "riding" take his gutter brain but not feeling cheeky enough to say it aloud. He settles with a contemplative hum, as if all three of them don't know he absolutely will not be getting a bicycle if he has to haul it up to his floor every time he uses it, dragging dirty wheels into his apartment.

 

“Maybe I will.” He says defiantly. He wiggles around in Tony’s embrace until he can easily look up at the man. “What’d you two do today?”

 

Tony tilts his head up and hums, pretending to think. “Oh, you know. Worked on some blueprints.”

 

“Did a sketch,” Steve adds.

 

“Had lots of sex, the usual.” Tony finishes, and Peter laughs again, unable to contain the giggles at the man's crude humor. Steve and Tony laugh, too, at themselves or Peter’s contagious smiling—they can’t tell. Tony kisses the boy’s temple.

 

“You must be hungry, yeah?” He offers, already getting ready to stand up and lead the way to the kitchen.

 

“Why do you never feed me _before_ I get undressed, huh?” Peter huffs.

 

“It’s bribery,” Steve smirks, “to make sure you do take your clothes off.” That ears a laugh from all three of them, Peter hopping off the husbands’ laps and sliding on the wood paneling.

 

“You don’t have to bribe me to do that,” he says, still giggling, and skips his way into the kitchen with the couple in tow.

 

Peter thinks he lucks out, because Steve and Tony _do_ plan on making soup tonight. The boy scoots a little ceramic sugar bowl to the side to clear a space and hops up onto the counter, pulling a cutting board onto his lap. He peels a potato and dices it up while Steve minces vegetables beside him and Tony cooks chicken in a pan at the stove. Peter tells them about his day at work, from editing photos to rewriting other peoples' entire articles to fixing the copying machine.

 

Somehow they end up on the topic of 3D printing, which apparently Steve feels passionate about the presence of in the art world, saying he keeps bugging Tony to make him one and Tony arguing that if he wants one so bad they should just buy one. The compromise by kissing over a pot of broth until Peter tells them they’re scarring the soup, to which they laugh and Tony retaliates by tickling Peter behind one knee.

 

Dinner is pleasant, growing progressively quieter as the three of them (specifically Peter) wind down until they’re washing dishes, putting away leftovers in near silence.

 

After eating they end up on the sofa again. This time the three cuddle close together with Tony under one of Steve’s arms and Peter under the other. Reruns of Friends play on the television but they aren't watching very intently.

 

After a few episodes, Steve whispers in Peter’s ear. "Would you be an angel and maybe do something nice for Tony?"

 

So in response, Peter slips his way off the couch and onto his knees, shuffling between Tony’s legs and looking up at him with wide doe eyes, waiting. For confirmation that yes, this is what he wants right now, and for guidance—because after all this time, Peter’s still nervous to act completely on his own.

 

Tony swallows hard and looks down at Peter with hooded eyes, running one hand through the boy’s curls and working at his pants with the other. With Peter’s help, Tony shuffles his pants and boxers down to his mid thighs, freeing a half hard erection that still makes Peter’s mouth water.

 

He braces his hands on Tony’s thighs, feeling Steve slip a hand into his hair along with Tony’s, guiding his head up. He lets them show him the way until he’s inches away from the engineer’s cock. Then he's licking his lips subconsciously, looking up once more. Steve nods at him with a hungry grin.

 

“Go on, baby. You know what to do,” he prompts. Peter nods shortly, offering a small smile, and turns his attention to Tony’s hardening length. He gives tentative kitten licks from the base to the tip, kissing along the vein on the underside of the man’s cock. Then he laps up the precome pooling at the head and takes it into his mouth. He doesn’t suck right away, just holds the heavy length between his lips, lets it rest hot and wet on his tongue.

 

Slowly, Peter works his way down, taking more and more of Tony into his mouth. He bobs his head to a rhythm that Steve and Tony set together, fingers tightening on Tony’s thighs as he forces himself to breathe through his nose and relax his throat.

 

“That’s it, honey, there you go. You’re doing great, sweet pea,” Steve murmurs. Peter doesn’t even notice Tony slipping a hand into his husband's pants.

 

He focuses on sucking Tony off, Steve’s flow of praise and the mechanic's moans encouraging him. At some point the husbands start to kiss each other, Tony’s hand leaving Peter’s hair to run through Steve’s coarse blonde. The younger can hear the obscene sounds of the couple kissing wetly, both distracted—Steve by Tony's, and Tony by Peter’s mouth.

 

Peter’s not sure how long he kneels there, Steve’s hand and encouragement guiding him as Tony groans and sighs, bucking ever so slightly up into Peter’s mouth, making the boy gag and choke a few times but always quick to soothe him. By the time Steve is sighing into the crook of Tony’s neck, nearing his climax by the mechanic's careful hands, Tony feeling himself teetering on the edge—Peter’s jaw and knees are getting sore.

 

He doesn’t mind though. And he definitely won’t stop until the couple finish. (For his own satisfaction and as some small repayment to them both.)

 

He hums and moans softly at the salty, heavy length in his mouth, and Tony starts to babble to him about being close. Spurred on, the younger hollows his cheeks and sucks as best he can, tightening his lips, holding his breath and taking the older man down to the hilt.

 

Tony groans and Peter lets him thrust up into his mouth a few short times, before suddenly there’s hot, bitter come pouring down his throat. He tries not to cough and actually manages to swallow pretty much everything. When he finally pulls off, slowly letting Tony’s softening cock slip from his mouth, he can feel the sticky wet string of come and saliva snap between the man’s tip and Peter’s own lips, leaving a little strain of slick on the boy’s chin. Tony moans at the sight and Peter looks up at him with a sweet little smile.

 

He cleans Tony’s cock clean with his tongue and moves to wipe at his chin with his hand. Steve catches his wrist before he can, pulling him gently but quickly up to the couch and kissing his face and mouth clean for him.

 

When Peter sighs contently and pulls away, he notices the out of breath, hooded look in both men and realizes Steve must have come at some point while Peter was focused on Tony. He grins tiredly, even though he’s more than half hard in his boxers from hearing the moaning and kissing above him.

 

The smaller yawns without thinking about it, giving a dopey smile to the husbands and wrapping his arms lazily around Steve’s shoulders. The artist chuckles breathily, and Tony huffs out a wet, wrecked sounding laugh next to them.

 

“Ready for bed now, sweetheart?” Tony asks. One of his hands comes up to rub the boy’s shoulder as he tucks himself back into his pants. Peter nods, pulling away from Steve to press a chaste kiss to the man’s jaw, leaning over and pecking Tony on the cheek.

 

“Mhm,” he hums, and allows the grinning men to stand up under him, Steve lifting him as they do. They walk leisurely back to the husbands’ room, Peter feeling pleasantly tired. Steve sets him down on the bed and he releases the man’s shoulders to crawl up the mattress. He lays down on one end, wiggling his way under the covers and waiting for the couple to return.

 

Steve crawls onto the bed after him, now in nothing but a pair of boxers that are probably different from the ones he wore before, and gives Peter a look. Tony comes around to the side of the bed the younger boy is on and lifts the covers, giving Peter a short kiss on the lips.

 

“Mmm, scoot your cute ass over, angel,” he murmurs against the boy’s mouth. Peter grins, but moves back towards the middle of the bed. Tony climbs in as Steve situates himself under the covers, the two coming together on either side of the younger boy. Steve wraps his arms around Peter’s waist, tugging the boy over to spoon him, while Tony crowds in front of him.

 

He takes both of Peter’s hands in his, kissing them all over, pressing his lips to the boy’s knuckles and palms and down his wrists. He looks down at Peter with nearly closed eyes, smiling against the younger’s hands as he holds them close, thumbs rubbing soothingly against his skin.

 

“Beautiful boy,” the mechanic whispers. Peter blushes a little pinker but smiles back at him, pulling his hands and Tony’s towards him so he can kiss both of Tony’s hands, too. Steve pecks the top of his head and Peter tangles their legs together, sighing in content. It smells so goddamn good in this bed, he thinks.

 

Smells like Steve and Tony. Warm like Steve and Tony. Soft and safe and good like Steve and Tony.

 

The lights are turned out and 'goodnight's are whispered softly, and Peter lies there, almost asleep but not quite, suddenly feeling a lot of things at once.

 

He likes it here. Between them, _with_  them. Except, no. He doesn’t just like it.

 

He loves it. He _loves_  it here with them.

 

He _loves—_

 

Peter cuts himself off right there with a shaky breath, putting up all the walls he can inside his head and frantically searching for everything and anything else he can come up with to occupy his mind so it doesn’t go there. Those are dangerous thoughts, he knows. They hurt too much.

 

Fuck, he’s so warm here. In a hoodie and boxers, surrounded by two incredible men who are breathing in him and each other as much as he’s soaking up them. He wants it to be like this all the time, every night.

 

And… that’s because it feels nice, and he likes being cared about, and he likes how delicate and _lovingly_ Tony and Steve treat him, and he likes them. Not—it’s not anything else. It’s not _deeper_ than that. It can’t be.

 

Because that? That’s not safe. That will hurt.

 

So Peter wraps it up and buries it down as far as he can and tells himself on a repeat mantra that it’s nothing like _that_  at all, and eventually, at some point, he gets lost in the warmth and the smell of the two men beside him, and he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m trying to make this as much of a proper story as I can but all my monkey brain wants to write is porn im so sorry. I still don’t know how long this is going to be but I’m gonna *try* to make chapters the same length, we’ll see how that goes. Also, I’ll be adding more specific tags as the chapters come out, but I’m telling you now; there’s definitely gonna be some kinky shit in here, and also an asshole called Quentin Beck who will be shitty (I’ll have notes/warnings for things that happen when they do—but it won’t be too awful. Peter is my bby and I can't hurt him).
> 
> Thanks for reading babes <3


	2. Peter And The Butterfly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *talks about the plotty fic, doesn't post the first chapter for two months*  
> Also me: *doesn't post the second chapter for another month and a half* 
> 
> Three is a pattern so I'll try to post the third chapter before another four+ weeks goes by!! 
> 
> Anywhoways I hope you like this chapter, everyone unapologetically knows Disney bc of who I am as a person. Also, I'm not sure it's an explicitly rated fic of mine unless Peter and Bucky have sexual tension, so. 
> 
> We're, like, combining comic and mcu things a bit. Exhibit A: Tony and Steve are prolly comic height (tall as fuck), but Peter and Bucky are more like mcu heights. Just. Throwing that out there bc it's also not a fic of mine if the notes aren't long as hell.

The first time Peter wakes up, it's raining hard and still dark out. He simply snuggles up against the warmth of Steve's bare chest and falls right back to sleep, lulled by pleasant heat and the sound of the storm outside.

 

The second time he wakes up, it's light and bright out. Steve isn't in bed and the smell of baked sugar is wafting through the house to the husband's bedroom, where Peter realizes he's practically flush with a sleeping Tony.

 

It takes a small amount of coercion but Peter manages to slip out from under the engineer's heavy arm and trod into the bathroom. He looks like a right disaster from sleep and almost laughs at his own hair in the mirror.

 

A splash of cold water and trip to the toilet wake him up more, and he rubs the groggy blurriness from his eyes. When he leaves the bathroom, Tony isn't in bed anymore. Peter stretches out, raising his arms as straight and high above his head as he can, bending until he cracks his back a few times.

 

He's still bent and stretching when he strolls slowly out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Tony's leaning against the table, coffee mug in hand, while Steve stands in front of the stove. Peter sways his way over until he can tiredly lean against Tony.

 

He wraps his small hands over the inventor's around the mug and pulls it a little towards him. Tony gets the idea and lets Peter guide his mug to the younger’s lips. 

 

Hot coffee hits Peter’s tongue and his eyes close hard in a wince, but it’s only a moment before he adjusts to the temperature and takes a long sip. 

 

Steve takes his coffee black, and Tony likes his with just a small amount of sugar. Peter, on the other hand, adds an almost (definitely) unhealthy dose of sugar, plus nearly as much creamer or milk as coffee itself.

 

His nose scrunches a little at the bitterness of Tony’s drink, but he swallows his stolen sip and breathes a quiet sigh. The engineer grins softly against Peter’s temple, one muscular arm coming up to wrap around the smaller’s shoulders, caressing his side over the hoodie as it does.

 

“Mm, morning,” Tony murmurs. Peter can’t help smiling softly and melting into the warm embrace. 

 

“G’morning,” he hums. “How’d you sleep?” 

 

Tony shrugs the shoulder to the arm he’s got wrapped around Peter. “Good. Woke up once with your hair up my nose and Steve’s cold feet on my leg.” He says playfully. Peter giggles a little, palms and fingers still warming over the older man’s hands. To their right, Steve smirks, turning away from the stove. 

 

“Payback for all the times you stick your cold hands on my neck,” he quips. Tony scoffs and Peter releases his hold so the older man can take another sip of coffee. 

 

“How you feelin’, Pete? Sick at all?” Steve continues. 

 

“Nope. I’m all good,” Peter chirps. The taste of caffeine has him craving more, and he somewhat reluctantly leaves Tony’s warmth to make his own drink. There’s a faint buzzing of content that the artist actively remembers Peter’s rain-soaked walk (and is still concerned that the smaller might get sick) that the younger man pushes to the back of his mind in favor of hunting down milk and sugar. 

 

Steve gives a hum of approval at the answer while Peter fishes out a ceramic mug for himself. There’s barely more coffee than cream in his drink and he adds a couple heaping scoops of sugar, watching Tony frown slowly in the corner of his eye. 

 

“You disgust me. You’re a walking cavity,” the man gripes. Peter just smirks and takes a sip, adding an exaggerated ‘ahh’. 

 

“You’re just mad that your tastes are limited to bitter bean-water and sadness.” He muses. Another snarky comment about bitterness dies before it has a chance to make it out of his mouth. He’s expecting Tony to jut his chin out and argue (because no one can eat more double chocolate fudge ice cream than the engineer), but the older man just cocks his head to the side and slides over to Peter. 

 

A calloused hand finds its way onto the younger’s lithe waist as Tony ducks his head to be level with the boy. 

 

“Good thing I’ve got you to sweeten me up then, huh?” He says softly, planting a gentle, grinning kiss on Peter’s lips. Tony’s voice is soothing and he’s radiating heat and Peter can’t help the way he melts into it all. 

 

“You don’t think I’m sweet?” Steve interjects with a fake pout. Both of the other two giggle, turning to the artist. 

 

“You’re as bitter as it gets.” Tony deadpans. Soft laughter bursts out of him only moments later. Neither Steve nor Peter can hold back laughing with him. The contagious sensation of a completely pleasant morning fills all three of them. It's sprinkling outside, but when isn't it, really. The air is a little cool but the kitchen is warmed up from the stove and the bodies, and the sun is working its way through the clouds outside the living room windows. It's peaceful. It's sweet (not too much).

 

Steve finishes cooking a short while later, and the three of them sit down to a french toast breakfast. It’s pleasant and mostly quiet, sleep lingering in their eyes and minds.

 

Half way through his second piece, Peter absently reaches over to wipe a droplet of syrup off Steve’s cheek with his thumb. And after the man catches the digit in his mouth, licking it clean and giving a gentle nip, the younger has to fight down arousal for the rest of the meal. 

  
They talk with slightly hushed, gravely morning voices about the day. Steve is moving a collection of paintings from his work studio to an art hall near Times Square around three in the afternoon, and Tony has to go to a meeting in the evening—one he actually can’t get out of. 

 

All Peter has to do is watch today’s lecture video for his online physics applications class and go in for an evening “shift” (it’s not an actual shift, just a bundle of hours whenever Jameson anticipates needing Peter in the building. Which can be really nice—like when it’s two hours in mid morning and then nothing for two days—and really awful—like when it’s twelve hours spread throughout the day and a repeat of the same mess for the rest of the week). 

 

He’s only going in to review some footage he has of a couple different concerts for three different small-time, local bands that perform in a cafe down the block. It’s not actually even Peter’s story. Some girl he honestly can’t remember the name of before he’s had at least two more cups of coffee is writing the article. Peter just happened to have his camera and some free time when she desperately needed the help (he feels bad for her, really. Jameson is a devil to everyone who dares call themselves ‘full time’ employees).

 

Since neither Steve nor Tony nor Peter have any plans until the afternoon, they decide to spend the morning together and go out for lunch. Or rather, the husbands invite Peter to stay a while (like they always do) and then ask him to go to lunch with them. 

 

As it turns out, Peter’s going to be the fourth person at the lunch date. 

 

“What should I call him?” The youngest asks with probably more distress than what’s warranted, shortly after they finish eating. 

 

“What do you mean?” questions Steve. He takes a plate from Tony and slips it into the dishwasher, grabbing a towel to wipe off his hands and looking at Peter quizzically. 

 

“Well, you guys call him Bucky. Should I call him Bucky, or James or Mr. Barnes or…?” 

 

“You can call him whatever you want, sweetheart. He’ll probably tell you to call him Bucky, anyways.” Steve answers. 

 

Peter sighs. He takes the towel from Steve’s outstretched hands, cleaning sudsy water off his palms. 

 

He’s heard countless (really—countless) stories featuring James “Bucky” Barnes. Most of them are stories about the shenanigans Steve and he got into as kids, but some are memories of their shared time in the military or more recent recollections. Steve, and sometimes Tony, meet up with his childhood best friend regularly. Peter can’t remember how many times he’s heard about dinner on the weekends or had a question answered with ‘yeah, Buck was over yesterday’. 

 

On one hand, considering the months Peter’s spent with the couple (in their bed), it’s kind of surprising that it’s taken them so long to introduce him to Mr. Barnes. 

 

On the other, though, it’s not like Peter would _expect_ to be introduced to the man. Mr. Barnes is Steve’s long-time best friend and a close friend of Tony’s—Peter is the husband’s… (somehow, the phrase “long-term booty call” worms its way into the young man’s head).

 

Well, he doesn’t really know what he is to the couple. But their relationship definitely leans less towards “relationship” and more towards “reoccurring fuck, but with feelings”. 

 

So, no. 

 

While the amount of time he’s been involved with the couple eludes to meeting their friends, the nature of his role in their lives says otherwise.

 

Which is another reason he’s nervous, on top of Mr. Barnes’ reputation by the husbands’ decree as the greatest thing to ever happen to this earth, and the fact that Peter doesn’t even know how to _address_ the man—Peter is. Peter is, well honestly, kind of like a sex toy (as much as that concept makes him cringe) in this situation. 

 

He’s an addition to a married couple’s sexual endeavors. A rather taboo addition, at that. As in, probably not the kind of thing a couple would talk about with their friends. 

 

As in, probably not a person a couple would introduce to their very good friend. 

 

As in, Peter doesn’t know what the fuck is going on and it’s making him nervous. 

 

He really doesn’t want to ask. But he really needs to. 

 

“So, uh…” breathe, breathing is good, “Does he—Mr. Barnes—does he know… um… a-about me?” Peter really needs to get better at talking. It comes out quieter than intended. “Like, uh, well, do I just say I’m your friend? Is that weird? Is this gonna be weird? I feel like it’s gonna be weird. I’m probably going to make this so weird, I’m gonna make it super awkward, ok, shit, on second thought maybe I shouldn’t come with, actually-” his anxious ramble is cut off by Tony grabbing his chin and kissing him. 

 

Warm lips. Peter’s stomach does a flip. 

 

“Back track,” Tony softly says when they pull apart. 

 

Got it, right. Breathe.

 

“Yes, Pete, Bucky knows about you. About us, this,” Steve begins, gesturing vaguely to the three of them as he calmly steps closer. “And it’s fine. It’s not weird, kid. A little unconventional, but Bucky isn’t bothered by that. It won’t be weird. You’re an angel and he’s gonna love you,” the artist pauses, his hand now on Peter’s shoulder. 

 

“Probably going to hit on you, actually,” Tony quips quietly. Peter lets out a sharp breath that could’ve been a laugh if he wasn’t so suddenly tense, and the husbands chuckle.

 

“You don’t have to come with if you don’t want to, you know that. But it’s going to be fine, sweet pea.” The engineer says gently. Peter sighs again, subconsciously leaning into the couple’s warmth. 

 

“You sure?” He prompts. He knows he’s fishing for the reassurance, now, but he can’t help it. The husbands don’t seem to mind, both giving him small, understanding grins and pulling him into a hug. 

 

The smaller gets swept up for a few seconds. Just breathing it in and enjoying the heat of being sandwiched between the two men. God, how do they radiate so much heat? They’re like walking furnaces. Peter wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 

“We’re sure, Pete. You’re always safe with us,” says Steve. Peter almost whimpers aloud at that. He does his best not to let his breath hitch and distracts himself by nosing into the comforting warmth of the couple’s embrace, nodding slightly and humming in agreement. 

 

 _You’re always safe with us_. 

 

 _God_ , there’s, there are so many levels and _layers_  to that and the connotations hit Peter like a runaway bus and he just _cannot handle_  that right now, he really just can’t, so he pushes the thoughts away with a mental snow plow and takes a steadying breath, trying to reply as calmly as possible. 

 

“I know,” he says. He offers them his most convincing ‘everything is fine’ smile and pulls out of the hug before it can suffocate him. 

 

Steve and Tony let him go and Tony moves back to finish loading and close the dishwasher. 

 

Peter runs a hand through his hair and breathes slowly, an effort to calm himself from the sudden carnival ride of emotions. In his peripheral vision he can see the careful way Steve is eyeing him, and it makes him anxious to divert the artist’s attention (they know him too well). Antsy to know what the man is thinking (they read him too easily). 

 

“What?” He prompts ~~not sheepishly at all~~.

 

Steve just eyes him a second longer, before shrugging off the question and ruffling Peter’s hair. The action is less messy-playful and more gentle affection and it’s soothing to the younger man. 

 

“Nothin’, baby, nothin’.” The artist muses. Peter blushes a little bit at the pet name. He bites his lip and turns to dramatically lunge his way to the table. 

 

(Is walking weirdly his defense mechanism? Distracting people by confusing them, is that his thing? What the fuck?) 

 

“So,” Tony begins, a bit absently as he picks a fluff out of Steve’s hair. “We’ve got time to kill.” 

 

Steve gives a thoughtful hum and Peter gnaws on this inside of his cheek. 

 

“What d’you want to do?” The younger asks. His stomach still has a weird feeling. Remnants of lingering nerves—for meeting Mr. Barnes and a narrowly avoiding rabbit hole of emotions. 

 

Steve just tilts his head from side to side, hooking his fingers in Tony’s waistband and striding across the kitchen floor towards Peter. 

 

“I’ve got a few ideas.” He murmurs. 

 

Peter’s neck feels hot, suddenly, and he wets his lips, watching how both husbands’ eyes follow the movement. 

 

Steve’s idea turns out to be Peter and Tony on either side of him, all under a heavy comforter blanket, passionately (and a bit loudly) trying to help him win some sort of timed scrabble-like game on his phone.

 

( _“Ossia, it’s Ossia!”_

 

_No it’s not, it’s not Ossia!”_

 

_"Fuck!”_

 

_"Oasis! Try oasis!”_

 

_“Oasis works!”_

 

_“Jesus christ.”_

 

_“Tony, is Ossia even a word?”_

 

_"Yeah, it’s the name of a tech company.”_

 

 _“Nerd.”_ ).

 

This, of course, after they have sex in the kitchen.

 

***

 

Peter tugs at the sleeves of his hoodie until they cover his hands. 

 

He’s nervous. 

 

He’s walking ~~definitely not a ‘safe distance’~~ slightly behind the Stark-Rogers couple as they enter the restaurant where the three of them are meeting Mr. Barnes. The plan is that the four of them will eat lunch here together, and then go check out this butterfly “house” a block away, if only for a while before they all have their responsibilities to attend to. 

 

The restaurant doesn’t look too incredibly fancy, but Peter knows that it’s way out of his price range because the couple have taken him to eat here before. The walls are almost entirely windows, tinted and reflective so it looks like one of the hundreds of other mirror buildings, but with a million different views of the city from inside.

 

There’s warm light chandeliers and white table cloths with carefully tailored ruffles to look more casual and tea-set aesthetic than they really are. All the wooden tables and chairs are dark mahogany and the floors are dark tiles, but there are potted and hanging plants all over the place, giving some sort of ‘rich aunt’s sitting room’ look. 

 

It’s pleasant and the food is good, if expensive, but Peter’s not paying (he rarely does), and he’s been here plenty of times. 

 

They walk up to find their usual table, in one of the back corners on the third floor, with a pretty view of the street and a huge plant in a ceramic vase behind it that makes the whole corner smell like a rural backyard. 

 

Peter doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. 

 

Ok, scratch that, he does. He’s nervous because meeting new people is always a little nerve-wracking, particularly when he already knows that said new person is infinitely more talented, smart, and interesting than Peter himself; when people Peter really admires both really admire said new person and thus heighten everyone’s standards even more; and when said new person is the very close and treasured friend of two people that Peter is fucking.  

 

It’s just—usually he has at least a _little_  bit of a grip on everything. 

 

Today, though, for whatever reason (or, more like  _whichever_ reason, because God knows there are many), Peter feels like a wreck. 

 

When they actually get near their table he slows even more and tries to melt completely into the background behind the couple (maybe just through the floor). 

 

Mr. Barnes is already there. 

 

He sees them and smiles (and _damn_  if it isn't a nice smile), standing up to greet them.

 

Fuck. Shit, Shit shit shit.  _S_ _hit_. 

 

Nobody told Peter that the guy was this  _attractive_. 

 

(He has a problem with talking to people. That problem is so much worse when he is attracted to those people’s physical traits.)

 

(Call him shallow, he knows it's kind of awful—but he's panicking.)

 

The man has dark brown hair that’s long enough for him to have it pulled back into a bun, a few strands slipping out and framing his face, fucking _stormy_  blue-grey eyes crinkling when he catches sight of the group. His cheekbones are well defined and his jaw is sharp (but not… too sharp?) and oh _shit_  that smile is charming. 

 

“Hey Steve, Tony,” he says ( _voices_  should _not_  be that attractive), grin widening. He hugs each of the husbands (do they always do that?) and Peter can see how he’s as broad as Tony and about as tall as Steve, and wow, rarely has a cargo jacket looked so good on a human person. 

 

“Hey Buck,” Steve says. He’s smiling just as much as his friend and his husband—just as genuine. 

 

“Good to see you,” Tony nearly whispers, pulling away quickly like there’s something much more important to get on to than greeting each other. Which. Oh god.

 

“This,” Steve begins, turning to Peter. Tony mirrors him and suddenly there’s a clear path between them, like the fucking red sea parting, and the engineer reaches back to catch Peter’s sleeve, thwarting the younger’s attempt at shrinking out of existence by pulling him easily closer. 

 

In a matter of seconds, Peter is front and center with the new man, both husbands beaming like this is the best day of “show and tell” _ever_. 

 

“... is Peter. Pete, meet James Barnes.” Steve finishes.

 

Peter damn near melts when Mr. Barnes reaches out and captures his hand to shake it (and _wow_  does this guy’s hand dwarf the younger’s), then feels his stomach start to churn as he remembers that he has no fucking clue what to call the man. 

 

He’s actually ready to panic when a suave voice says:

 

“Please, call me Bucky. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter.” 

 

Bullet?

 

Dodged.

 

Peter thinks his legs are jelly. He aims for a firm grip as he shakes Bucky’s hand. 

 

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” He says. His voice is only half as shaky as he feels and he considers it a win. 

 

“I gotta say, I’ve heard a lot about you.” Bucky begins, slowly releasing Peter’s hand. The smaller swallows thickly and tries to be conversational when he replies. 

 

“All good things I hope.” 

 

Oh come on, Peter. How corny can you _be_?

 

Bucky laughs good-naturedly as they find their seats. It’s a square table and not quite large, either. Tony sits on Steve’s right, Bucky to the artist’s left, and Peter directly opposite the blond. 

 

“The praise never ceases. Seems like these two are rather big fans of yours. Sometimes I can’t get ‘em to _stop_ talking about you.” Bucky smirks. Steve and Tony chuckle like they couldn’t argue if they wanted to, and Peter tries not to let on to the rush of warmth and the urge to smile that he feels, hearing that the couple not only talk about him, but fondly. 

 

He’s already eyeing the glass of water in front of him, set on the table with three others before the group even arrived, to panic drink from. 

 

“Oh?” He says with a nervous grin, because he’s stupid or something apparently, and takes a sip from the glass. Bucky just smiles and nods, seeming unbothered by Peter’s inability to converse. 

 

“Mhm. I wanna say they never told me you were this pretty, though, but that’d be a lie.” The man says. The words roll so smoothly off his tongue as he oh-so-casually shrugs one shoulder, throwing a fucking _wink_ at Peter, and the younger almost chokes. 

 

Because that’s just an easy thing for this guy to say. Just. Fuck. 

 

Peter's barely got his water down when he’s coughing in surprise and blushing bright pink. 

 

“Um, I- uh,” he stutters, looking anywhere but the three men’s faces and curling in on himself. 

 

Steve must see how the younger has absolutely no idea what to say or do, because he steps in. 

 

“Come on, Bucky, be nice.” He scolds. Tony’s chucking (because he’s evil and likes to watch Peter suffer) and Bucky brushes off the reprimand with another devilishly striking smile. 

 

“I am being nice.” He defends. Tony just laughs more and reaches over to pat Peter’s shoulder. 

 

“Told you he’d hit on you,” he says almost smugly. All Peter can do is nod and offer the most nervous laugh in the history of nervous laughter. 

 

He feels kind of awful. 

 

Because the three older men are smiling and laughing and probably think the first sixty seconds of this lunch date have gone swimmingly. They’re all so… charismatic and funny and relaxed. 

 

Peter is… not exactly those things.

 

At least, not in this particular fashion, and definitely not with intimidating strangers or people he is otherwise intimidated by. 

 

But suddenly he’s thinking about doing things that scare him and trying new things (like… being confident?), which despite being something he only really started after meeting the couple (becoming _involved_  with them), is playing in his head with a voice that sounds too much like MJ. 

 

He hears “ _You’re always safe with us_.” too, and then he’s mentally rolling his eyes and face planting and resolving to be a socially capable person. At least, pretending to be for this meal. 

 

Ok. 

 

Charismatic and funny. He can do that. 

 

Relax. He can… probably do that. 

 

He takes a deep breath and tries to round up all the spare confidence he has—take on the persona (however much is real and however much is completely pretend) of someone who can actually interact with people. He doesn’t want to make this awkward. For his own sake, for Mr.- _Bucky’s_  sake, and especially for the couple, who seem so excited for Peter to meet their friend. 

 

Charismatic and funny.

 

Bucky flirted with him (Peter’s pretty sure he’s not reading that wrong). Bucky is very attractive and if anything Peter’s heard is true, an interesting and witty, conversational person.

 

Charismatic and funny. 

 

Flirting… flirting is charismatic and funny. 

 

Peter can. Peter can flirt back. Peter can flirt with the best friend of the two men he's fucking. (To be fair, Steve and Tony really don't seem to mind.) 

 

Ok. Yeah. 

 

He’ll just flirt with Bucky. 

 

What could possibly go wrong. 

 

Relax. 

 

Charismatic and funny. 

 

_Be cool, Peter._

 

“Well,” he begins, staring at his water before he works up the nerve to make eye contact with Bucky. “You know, I heard a lot about you, too. Mostly stories of getting into trouble with Steve,” he pauses to breathe, looking at the artist’s grin. “But really, they told me all kinds of things. Except, somehow, they _actually_  forgot to mention how handsome you are.” 

 

He gives a nonchalant ‘oh-what-an-odd-coincidental-mishap’ shrug and leans back a bit. He’s a little anxious to see the three older men’s reactions to what he’s said, for a whole mess of different reasons, but now he’s almost committed to being flirtatious (charismatic and funny) ( _relax, Peter, relax_ ), so he tilts his head down the slightest bit and looks up at Bucky from just under his lashes.

 

The whole move must work out pretty well, because Bucky laughs almost bashfully in a flattered type of way. 

 

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” he muses, throwing an unidentifiable look towards Steve and Tony. 

 

Which, ok. Peter doesn’t know what that means. But then Tony’s talking, so he doesn't have to dwell on it. 

 

“We figured it’d be pointless to mention, you know, considering you’ll never be able to come out on top of me. I'm exquisite.” The engineer says. His tone is comically sassy as he takes a sip of his water. Neither Steve nor Peter can hold back a giggle at that, and after and exaggerated eye roll, Bucky laughs, too. 

 

" _Mhm_. Guess I’ll have to find someone else to top, then, huh.” He says with a quick eyebrow raise. It sounds like a challenge to Tony but the way he glances at Peter, the corner of his mouth quirking up, makes the younger feel warm under his collar, blushing and looking down. 

 

There are not many ways to misunderstand that. Right? 

 

Tony coughs on his water and Steve tips his head back laughing, the engineer glaring exaggeratedly at Bucky. 

 

Charismatic and funny. Flirtatious. 

 

Peter clears his throat as quietly as he can and steadies his nerve.

 

“That can’t be too difficult for someone like you,” he says, aiming for something borderline sultry but grinning at Bucky and probably looking like a dope. 

 

Buck smirks like he’s _proud_ (?) and leans back, ignoring the way Tony’s eyes widen at Peter. 

 

“Someone like me?” Barnes prompts. Peter’s opening his mouth and simultaneously praying to every God he can think of because he has no fucking clue what to say, but Tony cuts him off. 

 

“A pain in the ass,” the engineer scowls. The other three laugh and Bucky wets his lips, gearing up for another snarky innuendo no doubt, and Peter’s mesmerized by the action. 

 

“Me? Never,” the man begins, turning to look at the youngest and winking as he takes a sip of water. “I’m far too careful.” 

 

"Woah-kay, that's enough of that, mister. You've got ten seconds to make this PG." Tony says. He narrows his eyes so much it's comical and Peter can't tell if he's being serious or dramatic. 

 

"Ten seconds? But I'm just getting started," Bucky smirks at the man, then side-eyes Peter again, "I can go a lot longer than that."

 

"I wouldn't dream of doubting you." The younger responds. He's trying to force himself to cool down and play it off, but all three of them can almost definitely see right through him, and he imagines there's a dark blush giving him away anyways. 

 

Bucky bites the very corner of his bottom lip, raising an eyebrow and taking another sip from his glass. 

 

"I wouldn't be opposed to you dreaming of me in other ways, though." The devil himself couldn't grin any more mischievously. While Steve tries valiantly not to smile, Tony looks positively scandalized. 

 

"I cannot believe what my ears are hearing right now. Steve, are you seeing this? Are you seeing what's happening here?"

 

"I'm seeing it, babe." 

 

"Outrageous. Would it be so hard for you not to flirt with everything that breathes, Barnes?" Even Peter can tell Tony's exaggerating when he glares at Bucky. The other man doesn't mind. 

 

" _Yes_. It's not my fault you introduced me to the sweetest little thing I've laid eyes on in ages." 

 

Steve actually snorts at that, obviously more than amused by the shorthand between the other two. Peter just blushes deeper and takes a long sip of his water. Excluding the couple's litany of praise, he really only gets compliments from May (and occasionally his friends). Being talked to _(about)_ like this is... not something he's used to.

 

"You're pretty easy on the eyes yourself," he says before Tony can shut it down. It earns him a dramatic gasp and two amused grins. 

 

"Thanks, precious. Your eyes are just about the only thing I'd go easy on, if you'd like. I promise I'm a gentlemen either way." 

 

The words slip out before Peter can stop them. "Anything works for me. I'm pretty flexible." 

 

Bucky looks like he's about to win a game Peter didn't even realize they were playing. "Mm," a pause, "I bet you are." 

 

Peter... Peter runs out of steam. He feels like he just ran a mental marathon trying to keep up the confident, blatant flirting, and even though it's very obviously all in good fun, not to be taken seriously—he doesn't think he's ever held someone other than Steve or Tony's attention like this for more than five or six seconds, _maybe_ , so this is kind of throwing him for a loop. 

 

He swallows hard, looking to Steve.

 

Flirting isn’t nearly as hard as he thought it’d be, but he hopes the artist will catch on to his predicament. Hopes the man will steer the conversation towards, well, an actual conversation, because Peter's pretty sure he's only got three or four quality sentences in his flirt department and if he runs out in the first two minutes of lunch, things are going to get really awkward really fast.  

 

(That, and Peter would say this is going nowhere fast, but, actually, it’s going to a very specific place—just not one he knows how to deal with.)

  
(It's also a place where Tony commits murder, so.)

 

Steve smiles reassuringly at Peter and gets the hint, clapping a hand onto each his husband and his childhood best friend’s shoulders. 

 

“Easy, guys. I’m not sure we’re there yet, yeah?” The artist says softly, and both Bucky and Tony give little sighs and soft laughs. 

 

“Got it,” Bucky chuckles, giving a playful grin to Tony and a slightly kinder, almost apologetic smile to Peter. 

 

They strike up an unspoken truce and Peter relaxes.

 

(That's one hell of a way to break the ice, right?)

 

He breathes easy and shifts to get comfortable in his chair, leaning back and taking another, less panicked sip of water. He can feel Tony’s foot pressed against his—not doing anything, just resting next to his own shoe, and it’s a grounding comfort. It's good.

 

Steve kicks them right off asking Bucky how he’s been, and the other spares them no detail in a story about him nearly getting run over by a semi while driving his motorcycle (which, _dude_ , that is _so cool_ ). 

 

("Think so? I could take you for a ride sometime, if you want." Peter's too impressed to notice the innuendo until he registers the look on Bucky's face. His enthusiasm persists regardless.

 

"Really!? That'd be-!"

 

"Absolutely fucking not.") 

 

As it turns out, Bucky Barnes is exceptionally easy to talk to (and exceptionally easy to flirt with, though they take a few steps back). 

 

And maybe it’s the way Bucky seems so comfortable there, joking and catching up, but Peter starts to like the man really fast. Somewhere between Bucky calling Peter a sweetheart, mentioning bailing Steve out of alley-fights, and talking about his work as a museum curator—Peter thinks he'd really like to spend more time with the man.

 

(Which, _wow_. When has the "We should do this again sometime!" sentiment ever been genuine for him aside from with Ned?)

 

The fact that Bucky seems to know at least a little about everything they talk about, from Tony's most recent AI project to the TEDtalk on dark matter Peter watched last week to how to clean a fucking sarcophagus, might have a tiny little bit to do with Peter's interest. 

 

What can he say? Intelligence is attractive. Bucky's checking a lot of boxes for him, alright?

 

In a flurry of little jokes, Peter practically begging for embarrassing stories of Steve (with the artist’s protests falling on deaf ears and only earning him reassuring smiles from Tony), and really, kind of unreasonably expensive sandwiches (except, no, Peter would definitely pay every penny in his bank account for a loaf of whatever bread they used), lunch goes by in a blur. 

 

Tony and Steve pay for all four of them, despite both Peter and Bucky protesting.

 

They leave walking as a close group as they make their way out of the restaurant and down the street. The butterfly tent is set up at the end of the road in a small slot of grass that’s not big enough to be a park, really, but large enough for the green-house-esque butterfly home. 

 

The tent is tall and made of white plastic, almost opaque except for the plants pressed up against the makeshift walls, where the green of the leaves and vague shapes show through. There’s an elderly man handing out booklets in the entryway and Peter takes a little directory from him.

 

Inside, there are netted canopies and little dirt paths winding throughout the tent. Every so many feet there are different signs with blurbs about the species of insects and plants, little pictures on each one. 

 

Stepping through the flapping plastic curtains and into the tent, Peter’s hit by a wave of warmth and floral scents. Almost immediately, Steve grabs onto Tony’s sleeve and starts pulling him in, nearly throwing his phone in an attempt to take it out as fast as possible and talking a mile a minute about painting all the different butterflies and flowers they see. 

 

As the couple all but trip forward into the tent, Peter and Bucky fall into step beside each other, a short distance behind the husbands. 

 

They talk for a while until Peter has to cover his mouth, trying not to laugh so hard. 

 

“You’re kidding, you’ve gotta be joking,” he giggles. Bucky’s smirking beside him, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other come up to make gestures as he recalls the memory. 

 

“No, seriously. The little shit’s got a trash can lid, a _trash can_ , and he’s using it as a shield against this dude that’s a whole foot taller than him. Twice his size.” 

 

Peter squeaks through his attempt at muffling another laugh as he pictures Steve ( _Steve_ ), Peter’s own size, with an aluminum lid, trying to fight someone so much bigger than him.

 

“I get there just in time to watch this guy knock him down, and, you know, he’s Steve, of course he gets right back up. And I gotta kick the dude’s ass before he beats little Steve to a pulp. And _then_ , to no one’s surprise, first thing he says to me, ‘I had him on the ropes'.”

 

Peter had cringed in sympathy at the mental image of Steve getting hit, but now he can’t hold back laughing again. Before he can respond with any real words, Steve’s turning around from where he and Tony are ahead. 

 

“I definitely had him,” he says proudly. Tony looks a little sympathetic and Bucky outright laughs. Steve rolls his eyes, but the butterflies quickly catch his attention again. Peter tries to stifle his laughter, distracting himself by studying the plants next to him. 

 

“That’s honestly so freakin' crazy. I had no idea Steve was ever so…” he trails off, shaking his head. 

 

“Completely batshit?” Bucky offers. Peter giggles again. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky echos, grinning fondly. “He was a feisty, reckless little punk. Still is, really.” 

 

Peter huffs a little laugh and stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

 

“I’m not sure how much I’ve seen him reckless, but, feisty punk for sure. I’ve never won a pillow fight or poking war or anything. Never. I’m not sure if Tony has, either, actually, and I’m also pretty sure I’ve seen him almost get into a fight with strangers… si-seven, seven times,” he says. He looks up at Bucky and the man rolls his eyes dramatically, groaning. 

 

“He’s a menace. A hazard to society.”

 

Peter stifles a giggle in his sleeve when Steve turns around again to glare at them so dramatically it can't be anything but fake, before scoffing and walking further away, dragging a chuckling Tony with him. 

 

Absentmindedly, Peter's eyes wander, and he finds himself staring at one of the blurbs on the signs. It’s about a bright orange flower, the _sparaxis elegans_  from South Africa. He’s reading to see if there’s any listed reason why they have that particular flower in a butterfly tent in New York, when he feels Bucky leaning over his shoulder, reading with him. 

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the older man begins, drawing Peter away from the sign with a bashful little grin. “But you seem to really like the plants.” 

 

The comment snaps Peter out of his reading trance and he flushes, stepping slowly away from the panel.

 

“Um, yeah, I guess I do, a bit. Plants are… nice. I was just reading, I mean, I was reading that one because the flower caught my attention, and then it said it was from South Africa so I was wondering why they have it here in New York,” he knows he’s starting to ramble but he can’t stop, “but mostly I just like plants for how they grow, you know? Not really botany but, the biology part of it. ‘cause, um, I’m actually going to school for biochem, so. Plants, kinda.”

 

‘Plants, kinda.’? What the hell, Parker? What does that even mean?

 

Bucky just gives him that ridiculously charming smile again.

 

“That’s really cool, Pete,” he begins, and Peter damn near preens. “Man, he’s cute and he’s smart—you’re a whole package, aren’t you?” 

 

Peter feels himself blushing so much that he has to turn his face away. Suddenly, he’s very focused on a group of butterflies across the path. 

 

Right. 

 

Charismatic and funny. 

 

Flirting.

 

“You’re one to talk,” he laughs (not nervously at all because he’s very good at this, of course). 

 

Bucky just raises his eyebrows and slips his other hand into his jacket pocket. It's not necessarily an invite to go on, but Peter can’t stop himself from elaborating. 

 

“You're a package. Super smart, really funny, really, really nice—and you have a motorcycle, ok, that is _so cool_ , and, also, you are...  _very_  attractive.” He gets quieter at the end and wets his lips. Bucky watches him closely and slants his jaw as Peter speaks, a little smirk on his face. He seems wholly unbothered by the surfacing shyness. 

 

“Hm. I won't argue with that," he hums, flashing a comically cocky look, "I am incredibly attractive, funny and nice, you're correct."

 

Peter giggles and Bucky shakes his head. "I'm not too smart, though. You want intelligence to match your biochem major, you should meet T’Challa and Shuri. Different studies, but those two are geniuses. They’re the ones that helped me with my arm.” He says. Peter pauses. 

 

“Your arm?”

 

Bucky gives him a look for a second, then sets his shoulders back with something like realization. 

 

“Did Steve and Tony not tell you?” 

 

And because Peter honestly has no idea what the man's talking about, he shakes his head. Bucky gives him a soft expression. 

 

“Long story short, when Steve and I were in the military a lot of shit went down and, in simplest terms, my arm got real fucked up. I’ll spare you the gory details, but T’Challa and his sister Shuri fixed me up when it probably should’ve been impossible to. And they’re not even specialized in medical procedures or physical therapy. It was incredible. I lost complete control of my arm in the beginning, and now it’s fully functioning. I mean, it still doesn’t _always_ do what I want it to, but, it’s a million times better than not having an arm at all.” He laughs almost self-deprecatingly as he finishes. Peter looks at him with wide eyes. 

 

(He will definitely be asking for an elaboration to that story later—when it's appropriate and not rude. Or maybe he'll ask Steve and Tony. What _happened_ to him? Who are T’Challa and Shuri?)

 

“Wow, Bucky, I-I, I had no idea,” Peter says. He can’t think of anything else to say. He really didn’t know anything about that at all. 

 

Bucky just gives him a half quirked smile (the way Peter’s learning is natural to the man). 

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

And they’re back on track again. 

 

Charismatic and funny. Flirting. 

 

“Have I not been giving you enough of those already?”

 

Bucky’s eyelids fall a little. “You sure have. Maybe even more than I’ve given you— which is a goddamn _crime,_ cinnabon." _Cinnabon? Is- is that a new nickname? Where did that come from? Why does Peter like it a lot?_   "Got me wondering if I need to step up my game, actually.”

 

“Oh, you definitely need you step up your game.” Peter jokes, a little skip in his step as he moves to where there are butterflies fluttering around a yellow flower bush. Bucky follows him, bottom lip caught between his teeth and a grin slipping it free. 

 

“Yeah? Like, I should tell you more about how pretty you are, or I should ask you to dinner, or I should skip right to taking you home with me?” He says smoothly. Peter almost chokes on his breath and tries to keep up.

 

“You’d really take me home with you?” He follows, trying to sound something like cocky and alluring and failing miserably due to genuine awe and distraction. Bucky is very close to him, now. 

 

“I really would.” The older man says. He pushes a lock of hair from Peter’s forehead and tucks it behind the younger’s ear, and the movement has the smaller shivering. 

 

Oh, wow.

 

Bucky is really, really close to him. 

 

They aren't moving anymore. Just standing, curled slightly into each other’s space, chocolate brown staring into the bluest grey (greyest blue? What a color). Peter feels small, gazing up from under his eyelashes. It's not bad, though. Bucky has the strangest expression, somehow managing to look so suggestive, sultry even, but also comforting and open and gentle. 

 

It’s completely ridiculous and Peter sort of wants to lean into him. He's giving off the same feeling of safety that Steve and Tony do. Like Peter knows he can trust the man.

 

The fluttering of butterflies beside them is what finally draws Peter to break the spell and he pulls himself together, putting a step of space between them. 

 

“If you can catch a butterfly,” he muses, steadying himself, “I’ll think about going home with you.”

 

Bucky smiles at him, and shit, that man has no business looking so _seductive_  and _soft_  at the same time. 

 

“Deal.”

 

Peter turns back to the plants and does his best to steer them back to the fun, light conversation. Bucky lets it happen easily. Asking for more stories about Steve does the trick. They spend another ten minutes talking about the two men's history, getting side tracked and coming back to the comfortable topic of Steve's embarassing childhood moments.

 

Bucky's getting started on something that sounds suspiciously like the blond lying on his enlistment form when their attention is drawn to the Stark-Rogers couple.

 

(Peter's going to ask about the end of that story later. Isn't making anything that classifies as a false statement on a military form a felony? Peter's pretty sure that's a felony.)

 

The husbands are a bit of a distance ahead of them, near a large bush with tiny pink flowers, arguing somewhat loudly. When Peter tunes in to what about, he nearly coughs on a burst of laughter. 

 

“Are they- they’re actually, seriously fighting. Over who has prettier eyes. That's it. I've seen it all.” Bucky says in awe. Peter can’t help laughing.

 

They really are arguing over which of them has prettier eyes. Tony says it’s Steve. Steve says it’s Tony. They’re getting _heated_ over it. 

 

“They’re making a _scene_ ,” Bucky adds. 

 

“When don’t they?” Giggles Peter. Bucky just laughs with him. 

 

“Fair point." 

 

Tony looks about ready to commit homicide and Steve is starting to use hand gestures he’s so into it. It’s… _cute_. 

 

Oh, god. 

 

Watching the husbands is cute. _They’re_  cute. It’s funny and a bit embarrassing and it’s so cute it makes Peter’s heart hurt. The longer he watches the more he feels that ache in the pit of his body growing, and he swallows thickly, biting the inside of his cheek. 

 

Tony’s doing the thing where he leans back a little and somehow feels like he’s _more_ in your space when he does, looking appalled and bringing out all of his defining quick-witted prowess. Steve’s moving his hands around like he’d be shoving Tony if that wasn’t his husband—if he didn’t consider the nature of their disagreement—looking like some fiery, offended poster boy for righteousness. 

 

God. They’re arguing, because they each think the other’s eyes are prettier. It’s, it’s _corny_  and _sappy_ and _petty_ it’s _beautiful_. That they’re like this. That they’re so passionately dedicated to one another on each and every level, they're so _infatuated_ with each other, how they’re truly so completely sold on each other it’s _insane_. 

 

They’re so in love it’s _painful_. 

 

(There’s no room for anyone else.)

 

Peter doesn’t know he’s practically making heart eyes at the two men, and he doesn’t know Bucky sees him. He probably wouldn’t care anyways, though. 

 

“You know, Pete,” the older man begins, and Peter can _see_  the metaphorical claw marks left behind by his nails as Bucky drags him out of his head. “I first met Tony, what, must be almost ten years ago.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really. Steve introduced us before they’d even started dating. We hit it off really well,” Bucky pauses to give a little laugh, “probably too well. We started... _seeing_  each other less than a month after we met.” 

 

Peter’s eyebrows shoot up. 

 

“You mean-” 

 

“Mhm. I was having sex with Tony before Steve was. Can you believe that?” 

 

Peter laughs breathlessly because he doesn't know what else to do and shakes his head. 

 

( _"You’ll never come out on top of me”_ rings in his mind and, nope, no, absolutely not, get your brain out of the gutter, Peter.)

 

“Yeah. We weren’t dating by a long shot, but we’d hook up whenever we got the chance. It went on for months and then, one day, we just stopped. Tony said he couldn’t anymore. Can you guess why?” Bucky prompts.

 

Peter, tearing his eyes away from the couple, doesn’t even think before answering. 

 

“Steve?” 

 

“Mhm.” Bucky hums softly, looking at the husbands fondly. “He was in love with him, before they ever even went on their first date. A little while after that and Steve stopped seeing his old girlfriend. He loved Tony, too, though I doubt he knew it, then. They weren’t actually together, but, neither of them could be with anyone else. They didn’t want anyone else. Love’s like that,” he kind of trails off, and Peter feels a very concerning combination of fondness at the story, and also like he got kicked in the stomach. 

 

 _They didn’t want anyone else. Love’s like that_. 

 

That's—holy _shit_ , that's like a brick to the face. Peter feels like he just got doused in ice water or something. Was that—is that like, is that supposed to be a lesson or a message or something? Because Peter doesn’t need that. He’s not… there’s nothing like _that_  going on between him and the couple. They fuck and they’re, well, _friends_ , basically. They fuck and they care but it’s not _like_  that.

 

No. 

 

As much as that kind of sounded like a subtle warning, it wasn’t. There’s no need. Bucky’s not like that, frist of all, he’s too nice, and there’s nothing to warn anyone about anyways. Peter would say he's just projecting, but, there's nothing for him to be projecting about. (It's not  _like_ that.)

 

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. He’s not sure what he’s agreeing to. 

 

“I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone more in love than those two, but,” Bucky turns to the younger man, “they’ve got some annoyingly big hearts, Pete. There’s always room.” He finishes. 

 

Which. What?

 

Peter doesn’t know how to unpack that. He doesn’t even know what he’s unpacking, because, _Bucky_ , what the hell does that even _mean_ — 

 

And suddenly Peter’s train wreck thoughts are cut off. The earth gets caught in a freeze frame. Time stops. 

 

A butterfly lands on him. 

 

 _Holy shit._  

 

The whole world ceases turning and Peter seizes up. The butterfly is small, its entire wingspan barely two or three inches. Its body is a dirt brown color, wings split up into sections of bright reddish orange and patterned eye-spots in black, yellow and blue.

 

Peter’s barely got the “What-” of his ‘what does that mean’ out when he’s cut off by the small insect fluttering in front of his face. 

 

It flies in circles for a few seconds, mesmerizing both Peter and Bucky, before inching closer and suddenly landing on the younger’s nose. 

 

Technically, his ears do hear Bucky calling over Steve and Tony, but he doesn’t listen. His entire brain shuts off. 

 

What was he thinking about before? He can’t remember. He doesn't care. It's irrelevant. Everything else in the world is irrelevant. The rest of the planet turns to totally irrelevant radio static because there is a _butterfly on him_.

 

(Usually he wouldn’t be so thrilled about having an insect on his face, but, holy _shit_. This is the coolest thing _ever_.)

 

“Congratulations, Peter. You’re officially a Disney princess.” Tony says with a grin, snapping Peter out of his cross-eyed focus. 

 

“Who does that make him, Snow White? Who else has a thing with animals?” Bucky adds. He’s grinning like a cat and making room for Tony and Steve to stand around Peter, the three of them arranging themselves so they can all be as close as possible without scaring off the butterfly. Steve has his phone out, not looking at the screen but tapping his finger to take as many pictures as he can, looking almost as wide-eyed and amazed as Peter. 

 

“Cinderella, right?” The artist says as he adjusts his phone to snap another photo. 

 

“I think they all have a thing with animals. That’s like, Disney princess criteria, isn’t it?” Tony chirps. The butterfly’s wings tickle Peter’s cheeks but he tries not to smile too wide, in case he scares it away. His eyes must be comically wide at this point, but he doesn’t care. 

 

“Actually, no, wait, I’ve seen this before. I’m pretty sure this is straight out of Bambi,” Steve says. 

 

“Yeah, he’s got those big doe eyes and everything,” Tony muses. 

 

“Bambi is not a doe or a princess.”

 

“Hush, Peter, Steve’s taking pictures.” Bucky damn near coos. Peter just rolls his eyes, then trains them right back on the butterfly. He resists the urge to snark the man in favor of watching the way the rest of the tent changes to a sheen of orange and dark purple as light reflects off the insect’s wings under his eyes. 

 

“And for the record, I’d definitely be Rapunzel or something. But from the film. With the frying pan,” he murmurs.

 

And no, he didn’t say Rapunzel simply because of the weaponized kitchenware detail (that’s exactly what he did). He distantly wonders what royal Disney leading lady he’d get in a Buzzfeed quiz. 

 

“Whatever you say, princess,” Steve smirks. He turns his phone up to take an aerial picture of the butterfly’s wings before stepping back, device against his chest like he’s no longer taking photos (Peter’s not sure, though— the man is sneaky). 

 

Peter pointedly does not contemplate his feelings on _that_ particular endearment, focusing instead on the butterfly. Which isn't difficult at all. It's just _sitting there_ on his nose, wings moving slowly up and down, it's little feet (are they called feet? Do butterflies even have feet?) tickling his skin. The moment feels surreal. Everything feels surreal. It's cool as hell. Peter hopes none of Steve's pictures are particularly unflattering (or alternatively, that at least one is decent), because he wants to remember this. 

 

Everything turns pretty colors reflecting off the wings, like pools and spots in Peter's vision. He doesn't say anything else and tries to hold his breath. 

 

Not even a full minute later, in a cruel twist of fate, a sneeze takes the young man by surprise.

 

The butterfly flees his face, but lingers, fluttering around their group and gravitating towards Peter, like he’s a flower it wants to rest on and can’t understand why he keeps moving. 

 

“That was amazing. My peak. I can die happy now.” Peter declares, still entranced by the insect. 

 

It circles them a few more times, disappearing behind Bucky and returning to the cover of flowers and greenery and grass.

 

"Gonna remember that for the rest of your life now, right?" Steve says. Peter just nods.

 

"Actually, yes. Definitely. That was probably the best thing that's ever happened in the entire existence of the world, second only to the creation of cherry pie." He states, scanning the plants the way the three older men are as well to see if the butterfly will return.

 

"Mm, I'm more of an apple cinnamon guy myself." Bucky muses.

 

"Typical," Tony says. The couple and Peter resolve that the butterfly has left them and turn back to each other. Steve is in the middle of explaining why no pie is better than peach, claiming he has sources, when Tony's attention is stolen over the younger man's shoulder.

 

“Oh shit, look!” he shouts, causing them all to turn to where a swarm of small yellow butterflies startle off a bush. The insects make a cloud of color as they fly up, thinning out and swarming the people nearby. 

 

Two kids are close to the bush when the butterflies take off (they might’ve been the cause, actually) and they both stare with wide-eyed wonder as the little creatures flutter around them, each reaching out and trying to touch the pretty wings, offering their fingers for the butterflies to land on.

 

(Pointedly not thinking about his future again.)

 

Peter’s mesmerized by the scene, the way the colors of the wings move in waves and disperse and reconnect and take cover on the leaves of flowers. Steve is pulling up his camera app again, talking a mile a minute once more about painting _that_ for sure, maybe as a series, different phases of the butterflies taking off, and _oh!_ , he could use up those ancient oil paints from the back room at his studio—when an elbow tapping on Peter's shoulder draws him to turn around. 

 

Bucky’s crouched inward, curled around his own clasped hands and grinning softly at the young man. 

 

“Caught one,” he nearly whispers. 

 

That sparks a rush. Body flooding with interest and the desire to better see the little winged creature that landed on him (assuming, hoping, maybe, that the insect Bucky captured is the same one), Peter leans in. He huddles around the older man’s cupped hands, his own lingering outside Bucky’s like a safety net. It’s only after Bucky opens his palms, revealing the butterfly (it _is_  the same one) sitting peacefully on his skin, and Peter stares in awe for a few seconds, that he remembers. 

 

Remembers his own words. 

 

(“ _If you can catch a butterfly, I’ll think about going home with you_.”)

 

He tilts his head up slowly, only now realizing how _c_ _lose_  they are again. (Closer this time.)

 

They’re breathing in each other’s air and they’re curled into one another’s personal bubbles, a huddle inches apart. Both are crouching, and even though Peter’s now looking up, eyes wide and lips parted because he doesn’t know what to say, Bucky’s still taller than him. Man, he's tall.

 

Wow.

 

They breathe. 

 

For a moment that might be a solid minute, all they do is breathe and look at each other. Steve and Tony's voices kind of warp and echo and fade, like Peter's suddenly underwater, but he can hear his own heartbeat loud and clear, the sounds of his own breathing ringing in his ears.

 

He and Bucky are both waiting—waiting for one of them to react. To the situation, to Peter’s little promise, to the way Bucky’s _looking_  at him. Peter’s not sure what’s going to happen. He’s not sure what’s supposed to happen. (He's not sure what he wants to happen). He’s not sure of anything at all, right now. 

 

And then Bucky’s giving him a soothing little smile. 

 

“Instead of coming home with me, maybe you could just give me your phone number?” He offers gently. Peter just sighs (in relief?) and looks at the older man with an equally soft expression. 

 

“I think that would be ok,” he says quietly. 

 

Bucky nods a little, and the butterfly flies away. They both straighten up, though they don’t move apart, and as Peter watches the insect flutter off, he sees Bucky watching him, too. 

 

And, yeah. Ok. 

 

He’s only known Bucky Barnes for _maybe_  two hours. But he likes him. He likes him and he trusts him, he thinks, and he's getting the feeling that the two of them could be really, really good friends.

 

(Which is a little crazy and a little scary, because Peter's never gotten a feeling like that before. Granted, he doesn't actively make a lot of friends, but. Still.)

 

He's pretty sure he and Bucky are going to be close. It seems like it. It feels like it, if that look in the older man's stormy ( _stormy_ ) blue eyes says anything.

 

The two men beside them (who seem  _fascinated_  by an exceptionally ugly black bug on the ground) are important to Peter, and looking at James Barnes, he's got a feeling the other man will be, too. 

 

(He doesn't want to dwell on it. He's too good at overthinking.) 

 

They're important to Peter, and possibly (probably?), Bucky will be, too.  

 

(Though, maybe in different ways.)

 

He turns and smiles at Bucky, and the older man winks at him again, another charming smirk. This time, though, it’s much less intimidating. Kinder. Calming, even. 

 

_They’re important to him._

 

“Hey, Barnes! Stop _undressing_ the kid with your eyes. That’s my job.” Tony jabs. 

 

And then Peter’s blushing again. 

 

“Unfortunate. You’re being replaced, seek work elsewhere.” Bucky deadpans without missing a beat. 

 

“Seeing as I’m the only unproblematic employee, I think I deserve a promotion.” Steve adds. He rubs his chin and grins at Peter's mildly horrified face. Tony huffs indignantly.

 

“What does a promotion get you?” 

 

“I get to undress him with more than my eyes.” 

 

 _On second thought_ , Peter thinks, cheeks turning bright pink, _I take it back_.

 

_Drop them all in a volcano. All three of them._

 

_And while we’re dropping people in volcanoes, we might as well toss me in too._

 

The three older men laugh like they can’t help it and Peter flips his hood up, pulling the drawstrings until his face is almost completely concealed. 

 

“I hate you, I hate all of you, I hate you all so much.” 

 

_No, I don’t._

 

_(Love's like that.)_

 

“No you don’t.”

 

_I really don’t._

 

“Drop dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, there sure is a reason for the 'misunderstandings' tag on this fic, I'm sorry. 
> 
> Peter in this story is,,, how do we say,,, a nervous wreck who uses passive aggression and sass as defense mechanisms? No I'm not projecting I don't know what that is. 
> 
> Which Disney princesses do you think your favorite Marvel characters are? 
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it!! All the love, babes, all the love  
> \- your local train wreck <3
> 
> p.s. the butterfly that lands on Peter is a peacock butterfly :D


	3. Merc With A Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … 
> 
> I’m gonna stop making promises about when I’ll update and then maybe reverse psychology will make me update frequently + on a regular basis. This chapter is short bc if I didn’t cut it off from the rest then it would’ve gotten way too long, so. Here we are. 
> 
> This is basically just a Peter and Wade bonding moment and then we’re back to our regularly scheduled program. 
> 
> Also there was supposed to be more self indulgent smut in this and now I don’t think we’ll get there for another chapter or two. Oh well.
> 
> Also also, made some minor changes/additions to the previous chapter, hopefully it flows a little better now? 
> 
> Thanks for reading lovelies, hope you enjoy <3
> 
> notes/warnings I guess for: minor recreational drug use (pot, they smoke one (1) joint) + a minor Peter/Wade moment. plus also lotsa references to the original “Collar Full” so, know that

**Nedward: Was he hot?**

 

Peter sighs but grins a little despite himself. 

 

**Yeah**

 

**Very hot**

 

**He has a motorcycle**

 

The three dots that mean Ned is typing reappear. 

 

**Nedward: Oh my god that’s sick dude**

 

Peter finishes the last sentence of his ‘reflection’ assignment on the lecture video for his physics applications class and submits it. 

 

**I know right**

 

He responds, finally closing his laptop after three hours of homework and photo touch ups. He should email those pictures to the Daily Bugle, but, maybe he’ll just transfer them directly when he goes in for his ‘shift’ in a little over an hour. 

 

**Nedward: So hot: are we talking Betty from Midtown hot or Jake Gyllenhaal or Chris Hemsworth…? Give me a description, give me something to work with here**

 

Peter smirks at his phone, at Ned’s mention of his high school fling—recently resurfaced—and their mutual distant friend, and of the actors. Ned’s straight (or at least, mostly straight) but he knows Peter like the back of his hand. 

 

**Fyi, those are three different types of hot**

 

**Uhh, think 3% hipster meets pouty face, kind of, meets that one senior who graduated our first semester and never wore a shirt anywhere except to class**

 

Peter doesn’t know how to describe Bucky other than ridiculously attractive and super funny and easily one of the most chill people ever. Ok. So he can kind of describe Bucky. But he doesn’t think Ned wants to hear about being so competent that it's actually physically attractive or impressively conversational or pretty lips and a fine jaw and radiating sexual energy like a fucking nuclear power plant. 

 

**Nedward: No way. How did you talk to him without melting**

 

Rolling his eyes, Peter leans back on his bed, typing above his face, holding his phone extra tight so he doesn’t drop it on his nose. 

 

**Idk man but he flirted with me and I flirted  b a c k**

 

Ned’s reply is instant. 

 

**Nedward: No. Fucking. Way.**

 

**Nedward: I'm so fucking proud of you but no way**

 

An incoming notification makes Peter’s phone ding but he swipes it away without looking at it so he can respond. 

 

**Yeah dude**

 

He pulls the notification back up after hitting send, and is so shocked to see that it’s from Wade Wilson (who he discovered had been added to his contacts after the night of the party, when Peter stuck to the senior’s side like glue and the older had driven him home—only for Peter to end up locked out of his apartment) that he drops his phone on his face anyways. 

 

He doesn’t read the message yet, distracted by his chat with Ned. 

 

**Nedward: Are you going to have a foursome?**

 

Peter chokes. He’s glad no one is actually there to see it. 

 

**It’s time to chane the subject**

 

***change**

 

Then, after a moment:

 

**But just for the record, no, definitely not.**

 

Ned obliges his wish to steer the conversation elsewhere, launching into his conflict about whether he should invite Betty to see a movie with him or not, how much she’ll appreciate the sci-fi aspect of it versus the underlying romantic subplot. 

 

Peter takes the opportunity when the typing three dots last longer than ten seconds, and he knows he’s going to get a long message, to check what Wade sent him. 

 

**merc w/ a mouth: You busy tonight?**

 

That’s suspicious.

 

**Working until 9**

 

The buzzing of Ned’s long pro-con wager of bringing Betty to the movie comes through and Peter reads it, commenting on Ned’s worry about food allergies in the theater and telling him that if he’s this concerned  then maybe he should just tell Betty about the movie before asking her. 

 

**merc w/ a mouth: Free after that?**

 

Wade’s text makes Peter frown internally. If the senior tries to rope him into some probably-illegal shenanigans—which isn’t unlikely, considering Wade has roughly two months of school left before graduation and is growing increasingly reckless—then he doesn’t want to have to fish for excuses to get out of it. 

 

Still, he’d feel bad for lying. 

 

**Yup**

 

The reply (or, replies) that pings through a moment later is a little startling. 

 

**merc w/ a mouth: Wanna go get high?**

 

**merc w/ a mouth: Sorry that was sudden, but srsly, you’ve super off lately. Stress is bad for the baby.**

 

Peter decides to deflect first, answer later. 

 

**What baby?**

 

**merc w/ a mouth: you**

 

**merc w/ a mouth: We can talk abt it. You don’t even have to smoke**

 

**merc w/ a mouth: I will definitely be smoking tho**

 

**merc w/ a mouth: Just so that’s clear**

 

Peter’s not that obvious, is he? He doesn’t even have proper classes with Wade, just runs into the guy all the time. He’s in the library constantly and Wade seems to only be able to actually do his homework if he’s in there, and sometimes Peter helps him out when he gets stuck on really complex math. 

 

(Wade… hasn’t actually told Peter what he’s getting a degree in. But there are lots of body science and physical health assignments the younger has seen the senior working through, so he’s figuring it’s something in the medical field.)

 

And yet Wade has still noticed him being off? 

 

Peter really needs to work on his poker face. 

 

Or, more like his poker existence. 

 

He’s about to reply ‘no thanks, I’m good’ out of pure instinct when he pauses. 

 

For all his faults and apathetic restlessness, Wade Wilson is actually a really smart guy. Book smart, sure, because he’s definitely in a lot of advanced classes and, well, he’s getting a degree. But he’s a really intuitive person and sometimes (emphasis on _sometimes_ ) he offers pretty high quality advice. Wise words. 

 

The idea comes to Peter’s mind that he can go hang out with Wade and Wade will tell him once and for all that he’s just a little deep in this crush, clouded by the ongoing relationship he has with the couple, and that when (not if, _when_ ) the whole set up finally ends, Peter will be perfectly fine. 

 

(There are some pesky thoughts in the back of his head saying this is a bad idea because none of that is true at all, but Peter shuts that down forcefully.)

 

He’s typing before he can second guess himself. 

 

**I’d like that**  

 

A message comes in from Ned about Peter’s inconsideration for the element of surprise at the same time Wade responds. 

 

**merc w/ a mouth: 10. I’ll pick you up @ your apartment?**

 

Peter tells Ned that not everyone appreciates being surprised, even by pleasant things and says they can talk more later. He writes and deletes and rewrites his response to Wade, then hits send and promptly tosses his phone to the foot of his bed, abandoning both conversations in favor of a shower. 

 

**Sounds good**

 

* * *

 

Peter’s tired. 

 

The printer broke, now. Peter fixed the copy machine yesterday—and why the hell the two pieces of equipment are different entities when literally every other printer and copy machine on the planet are combined into one piece of technology is beyond him—and then barely a day later, the printer breaks. 

 

So he had to fix that, all with Jameson breathing down his neck about needing more pictures and better pictures and why can’t Peter edit things any faster? 

 

The young man is starting to wonder if he even enjoys photography anymore or if this job will have ruined it for him. 

 

He fixed the printer and then Jane (that was her name, _Jane_ ) repaid him with coffee for the concert videos he got for her, except the creme or something in the coffee must have been expired because it gave Peter a stomach ache and he had to spend ten minutes in the bathroom trying not to puke. 

 

Which, of course, Jameson had to shout at him about wasting time over. 

 

It was definitely one his less enjoyable shifts but it wasn’t even that unusual and when Peter got home he couldn’t tell if he was eating two whole cans of tomato soup in genuine hunger or stress.

 

So he’s tired. 

 

But more than that, he’s pent up. 

 

He’s got too much energy, or rather, not enough, but his brain hasn’t caught on to that yet. 

 

All he can think about is Bucky and what the man had told him earlier. 

 

_”They didn’t want anyone else. Love’s like that.”_

 

They’d spent another ten minutes or so in the butterfly tent, so Steve could take all the pictures he wanted, and Peter read a lot of the blurbs on the plants and insects. Bucky had flirted with him some more and he’d flirted back, and Tony had continued to call them both out on it, but it was all lighthearted and fun. 

 

When it was time for everyone to head home, Steve and Tony so the artist could shower before his plans, Peter to get his homework finished and relax before going in for his shift, and Bucky before he had to head back to the museum, the younger had typed his phone number into Bucky’s mobile, and the older man had done the same. 

 

Sitting on the couch in his living room, Peter stares at the contact on his phone. Ignoring social constructs and polite conversation—how much would it take to just… text him? 

 

Nothing. A few taps of his thumbs, pressing send. That’s all it would take to just ask. 

 

_What did you mean when you said—_  

 

Peter shakes his head and turns off his phone. It’s stupid. He’s being stupid. He’s going to go out with Wade any minute now, and they’re going to get high and talk, and Wade is going to see right through Peter and know that under layers of confusion: it’s just a crush, and Peter is fine. Peter is fine and totally safe and it’s completely alright, and Wade, who cuts through bullshit like a Japanese steak knife through completely melted butter, will confirm that for him. 

 

Because it’s true. 

 

Because it’s totally, completely true. 

 

There’s a knock at Peter’s door and a buzzing on his phone and Wade Wilson’s voice outside, followed by rhythmic pounding on the wood. Peter scrambles to move and unlock it before his friend (huh. They are friends, aren’t they?) manages to disturb the entire floor. 

 

“Hey Pete,” the senior chirps, oblivious to his behavior (or, maybe he doesn’t care). 

 

“Hi,” Peter breathes. He’s got his phone in one pocket of his jeans and his wallet in the other, keys zipped up in his jacket. (Determined not to ever lose them again). It takes him seconds to shut off the lights and lock the door, following Wade down the hall and back to the stairs. 

 

“So Vanessa, ok, the light of my life, apple of my eye, she’s got this idea in her head somehow that _Wham!_ isn’t the best band on planet earth, right, and I’m trying to educate her but she keeps saying I have an unhealthy hyper fixation on Make It Big, and-”

 

“You definitely have a hyper fixation on Make It Big. You’re probably the only person who does, too.” Peter interrupts. 

 

“Not possible, my _Wham!_ fanfiction is majorly successful and I’m getting all of the lyrics to Careless Whisper tattooed on my ass. But listen Petey, the _point_ is that Vanessa keeps hiding my vinyl, because obviously she wouldn’t throw it out or anything, but she’s trying to send a message, and I’m getting the message loud and clear but it’s straight up bullshit honestly,” Wade continues.

 

He goes on about his endeavors to get Vanessa to say that Make It Big is her favorite album, specifically how he started blasting ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ at three in the morning and she wouldn’t have sex with him for two days as a punishment. 

 

And then Wade starts talking about how hot she is when he gets bossy like that, and before he can elaborate too much (because they’re stuck in Wade’s car right now and Peter would rather not have to listen to undoubtedly elaborate and detailed descriptions of the guy's sexcapades) Peter asks him what he’s majoring in. 

 

“Well, baby boy, that is the question.” 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

 

“I’m just stating a fact.”

 

“I mean… yeah, but… are you- are you going to _answer_  the question?”

 

“Not likely.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s a surprise.” 

 

Wade drives them to an empty lot at what looks like an abandoned parking garage. It feels like it should have creepy demon murder vibes, but Wade puts a disco ball sticker over his phone’s flashlight and plays ‘Angel of the Morning’ on a repeat, dancing as he goes, and it's not actually that bad.

 

He grabs onto Peter’s wrist and swings them both in circles, singing along so loudly Peter’s surprised they haven’t had the police called on them in the short time they’ve been there. But he can’t help from laughing and running after Wade as they make their way up to the top of the building. 

 

After sprinting around the roof, Wade excitedly pointing at different stars that they can see and doing flips in the air (Peter can kind of imitate the moves, sort of, but he’s a little nervous about not being able to see very well. Still, it’s fun to back-flip at the same time as Wade, so their four collective feet landing on the concrete at the same time makes a satisfying echo), they both settle down on the ground. 

 

They lean back on their hands and Wade lights a joint, offering it to Peter. He decides there’s no harming in accepting. 

 

(Actually, he decides if he's going to be brave enough to talk about this, out loud to another human being, then he absolutely _needs_ to not be sober.)

 

He coughs, and he coughs every single time Wade offers it to him, but it must be strong stuff, because he starts to feel a little lighter and more content after a while. 

 

File it under things he never thought he’d be doing. 

 

It’s already a long list. 

 

(A very, very long list.)

 

“So,” Wade drawls, blowing out impressive rings of smoke that have Peter gaping a little. “What’s on your mind?” 

 

Peter reigns his brain back in enough to shrug. 

 

“I dunno. Kinda like these guys. Keep thinking about things too much.” 

 

“Elaborate on that,” Wade hums. 

 

“Think I’m having a crisis. So, and ok, wait, you cannot tell a single soul about this. Ok? Nobody. Ever. Not, not even Vanessa.” Peter says, turning to Wade. The senior is already nodding his agreement, crossing an ‘x’ over his heart with a finger. 

 

“My lips are sealed. I’ll take it to my grave, doll-face.”

 

Peter lets out a sigh of content, then drops onto his back, folding his hands under his head. The stars are really pretty tonight, he thinks. 

 

“M’kay, so, remember that party we went to? Ok, no, the one party I went to last fall? At, shoot, I don’t remember the frat house…” 

 

“Yeah, no, I remember that. You got wasted on, like, candy vodka or something. That Adrian guy tried to take you to a room with him and Felicia flashed you, and you did the macarena to ‘Talk Dirty To Me’, and-.”

 

“Ok! So you remember, great, the- the details are irrelevant, we don’t need to go over that again,” Peter cuts him off. He never learned (or recalled even, really) the faces or names of most of the people at that party, or even most of what happened that night, but he remembers that last bit, actually. Because it made him want to throw himself off a bridge. 

 

Wade just smirks and makes a gesture with his hand for Peter to continue. 

 

“Anyways, right. So I went home, really drunk, and I somehow lost my keys and I was locked out of my apartment. And my neighbors, these guys who are married, actually, let me sleep over in their apartment,” He pauses, watching Wade carefully from the corner of his eye. “In their bed.” Pause. “With them.” Pause. 

 

Wade still doesn’t react. 

 

“So I slept in their bed with them, and, alright, they’re only thirty or something,” he says like he doesn’t have their birthdays memorized, “and I thought they were really cool people and, you know, also really attractive people, and then I slept in their bed, and I was freaking out but they were cool about it, and then we went on some throuple date thing, and then I went back to their apartment again, and basically, we’vebeenhavingsexforthelastsixmonthsprettymuch.”

 

Wade makes no move to even hint that he’s confused or missed what Peter said, so the younger swallows and shakes his head. 

 

“The point is that I’m thinking to much and I keep duping myself into wondering if I like them more than I should. ‘cause. Well. They’re married. And ten years older than me. And married. And we never actually talk about what we are, or anything, so it’s not like I know, but I know, and I’m, I’ve been worrying a lot more lately, that maybe it’s more than a crush. So. That’s what I’ve been thinking about.” 

 

Wade nods in understanding, then looks away. He finishes off the joint and snuffs it out with his hands, then shoves the remains into an altoids tin. 

 

“Well, Parker,” the senior begins, “I am pleased to inform you that there is a very easy way to tell if you’re hopelessly in love with these guys or not.” 

 

“I- I’m not, I didn’t say lo-”

 

“Do you want to know or not, baby boy?” 

 

Peter swallows and nods. “Yeah. I’d like to know.” 

 

Wade grins, then scoots closer to him. 

 

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way, because I am one hundred and ten percent in love with my future baby mama and only probably forty percent gay, maybe, but you’re too sweet for me anyways.” The older says. Peter furrows his brows in confusion, and then his eyebrows shoot up when Wade lifts his chin and kisses him. 

 

Compared to some of the kisses Peter has experienced in his life, this is chaste and simple, but Wade tilts both of their heads and his lips frame Peter’s bottom lip, gentle and purposeful, and it lasts a solid five or six seconds before the older pulls away. It was nice. No electric sparks or anything, and even Peter, who is probably at least a little high, can smell the weed on them both, but, it was definitely nice.  

 

The younger just looks at the senior, though, once they've separated, still pitifully confused. 

 

“Oh no, Petey,” Wade begins, “You’re fucked.” 

 

Peter’s shoulders drop. “What? Why?” He asks. Wade just shakes his head. 

 

“You’re totally in love with them.”

 

“Wha-?! No, no way! Why are you saying that?” 

 

“I’m hot as fuck and a really good kisser.” Wade deadpans. “Not to brag or anything, but that’s just fact. And you’re completely unfazed. If that didn’t get you even a teeny tiny bit hot, then you’ve gotta be sold on those guys.” 

 

_They didn’t want anyone else._

 

Peter shakes his head, sitting up and running his hands through his hair. 

 

“No way. You’re giving yourself too much credit,” he snarks, but they both know it’s a hollow attempt at deflecting. 

 

Wade must be able to tell that it’s a sore spot, though, because he backs off and scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

 

“I’m not giving myself _enough_ credit. Do you see me, Pete? I am prime daddy material.” 

 

Peter snorts so hard he covers his mouth just in case he actually coughs up anything.

 

“Do not ever say that ever again,” he says between laughs. Wade laughs too, falling onto his back and sprawling out on the concrete. “That was the worst thing my ears have ever heard, oh my god, Wade,” 

 

“I speak only the truth, baby boy,” Wade replies, winking through his own giggling. Peter groans and shakes his head, though he lays back down too. 

 

“No, no, you’re not allowed to call me that anymore, not after what you just said.” He laughs. Lack of coordination (distraction, or maybe he really is high, after all) cause him to hit his elbow on the hard ground and he yelps slightly at the sudden pain. 

 

“What?!” 

 

“Jus’ hit my elbow, tha’s all,” Peter says, rubbing his arm. 

 

“Aw, does daddy need to kiss it better?” Wade croons. Peter shouts at that, turning over to shove Wade away as the senior makes grabby hands at him, a mantra of ‘shut up shut up shut up!’ falling from his lips. 

 

They’re both laughing too hard to move properly, though, and then Wade starts jabbing at his ribs and Peter narrowly misses kicking the senior in the crotch in his attempts to worm away. They end up rolling around, wrestling in a way that’s nothing but Peter trying to defend himself from Wade’s tickling hands, neither of them getting enough oxygen through their giggling to have more strength than a toddler, and only stop to sprint away, still snickering, when voices shout at them from the ramp below to get off the property before the police are called. 

 

Even with the awful shift at work and the few emotional crises, as he runs clumsily with Wade to the car, both of them trying so hard not to trip as they rush down the ramps and levels in the dark, the senior blasting ‘Careless Whisper’ off his phone (to the younger’s evenly split amusement and horror)— Peter thinks it’s a pretty good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Wade Wilson with all of my heart and soul. Wade calling Peter 'baby boy' is from canon, I'm pretty sure, but I honestly think it fits anyways so I'm jumping on that caravan of everybody using it in fics, too. Also I couldn’t resist the bits about Jake G and Chris H, they just own my ass and I accept that
> 
> I’m thinking about maybe making shorter chapters (instead of 7-11k we’d go back to, like, 3-5k maybe) and that might help me update more often? Not sure how that will work out w/ my plot though, so, we’ll see. 
> 
> Thanks for reading babes, I hope you liked it <3


	4. Pretty Picture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be obvious and we've just begun this fic but I feel like I'm overdue for a PSA that even though they confide and kink negotiate etc, these three boys are /not/ the poster children for communicating (or healthy poly relationships— mainly because of aforementioned communication problem). And *apparently* that's the story I'm telling so pls don't be surprised when the lack of proper communication is the main antagonist— and if that's not your thing, the Pocket Full drabbles are (mostly) pure smut and fluff, so :D 
> 
> me: maybe I’ll make the chapters shorter  
> Also me: writes a nearly 8k chapter  
> me: there won’t be smut for a few more chapters  
> Also me: puts smut in the next chapter  
> (side note abt how I can’t believe we’re 27k in and Peter still hasn’t gotten fucked yet)
> 
> Hmmm I have a Weakness for soft intimacy and also overwhelmed/needy Peter and also additionally: who would I be without angst— so That's why this chapter is the way it is I guess. 
> 
> Hope you like it and thanks for reading lovelies <3 <3
> 
> P.s. credits for a prompt featured in this chapter in end notes bc shhh spoilers ;D

Peter has a bad dream that night.

 

It's terrifying, petrifying—confusing, and makes him feel so upset that he's genuinely _physically_ nauseous, and- and—

 

Oh, no.

 

That's not right.

 

That's not the dream. The dream itself is... it's _good_. It's more than good.

 

It's Peter, and he's in Steve and Tony's house, in their bedroom. He's not wearing anything but a soft, thin cotton robe, opened to expose his chest and cutting off at his mid thighs, tied only to cover his waist. And he's standing, knees pressed against the side of the mattress, leaning over between Tony's legs as the older man sits on the bed.

 

They're kissing slowly and Tony makes his way down, lips ghosting so faintly they're hardly there at all along Peter's jaw, from his chin to his ear, moving slowly. The older man kisses his neck, down to the hollow of his throat and dips his nose into the divot, lightly dragging his teeth over the taut skin on Peter's collar bones.

 

Tony's mouth skims lower, taking his time, his lips pressing gently and resting on Peter's supple skin for a few seconds before he moves again, picking a new spot. Peter's sternum, lower. A warm, smooth tongue peeks out, giving a savoring lick to the smaller chest, and then Tony's kissing the spot, over and over, each time almost slower than the last, until his lips have spread what little saliva was there, hot breath heating damp skin even more.

 

The younger's hands cup Tony's face, palms at his jaw and edges of his cheeks, fingers in dark brown hair, holding reverently. 

 

Steve stands behind Peter, head dipping to the crook of his neck, nose turned into his delicate throat, breathing the younger in and exhaling warmth onto the inviting, milky expanse. Hands discover Peter's waist, gentle but firm through the cotton, sliding lower and up again, light enough not to drag the robe. Large palms and long fingers find the dip and curve of Peter's hips and middle, then drift down to the outsides of Peter's thighs.

 

He sighs shakily, but not because he's nervous. It feels good. He feels good. He leans his head back against Steve's chest and the man kisses the edge of his forehead, his temple, cranes his neck so slightly to leave a soft peck at the corner of one of Peter's closed eyes.

 

Steve's hands move inward as they come up, meeting together at Peter's lower tummy, rising up his stomach and feeling how his belly caves in on instinct, shying away from the gentle touch.

 

The other man, still kissing Peter's chest slowly, leads his hands to Peter's hips, palms close on the uppermost part of his thighs, fingers wrapped around his waist, thumbs sitting at the top of Peter's v-lines. He rubs faintly up and down, pressing in just a little and letting up, a small, subtle massage.

 

Peter hums at the sensations. He's warm; comfortably hot. He's not burning up, no searing touches, no one trying to rile anyone else up. They aren't playing this time. They're soft, _comfortable_. 

 

Every breath and kiss and pressure where the couple's bodies touch his is comforting. He feels like he's been wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by warm water. Like he's gone under the surface of a hot tub, without the sting to his face or holding his breath. The heat flooding him so invitingly and flushing out everything, anything else that's not soothing.

 

One of Steve's hands lifts slowly up Peter's side, pulling the robe carefully off his shoulder and turning his head, dropping lower.

 

His nose is warm (there's dream logic) against the uncovered space, trailing along Peter's skin before his mouth descends. He kisses up the younger's neck and down to the edging curve of his shoulder, drifting back and forward, all along the exposed area, tasting, both chaste and anything but, teeth making only the faintest, most gentle appearances.

 

He picks the spot where Peter's collarbone meets his arm and sucks lightly at the skin, lapping and kissing. He's not trying to leave a mark, or a claim, or drive Peter crazy. He's just kissing, and it feels incredible.

 

There's no sweltering desire this time. They’re just soft. Not sweaty or blinding or needy, just Peter enveloped in that comforting warmth. A warm bath, light touches that aren't teasing, aren't exciting, aren't even appreciative or enjoying Peter's body, just intimate. Just _loving_.

 

Peter looks over at Steve, so, _so_ close, the man peering back at him through hooded eyes—then down to where Tony is gazing up at him, mouth open just a little, bottom lip still touching the middle of Peter's last row of ribs. He closes his eyes again, sighing so, _so_ contently.

 

"I love you," he says. His voice is quiet and nothing else matters but how perfect he feels right now.

 

"I love you," Tony replies, palms pushing slightly so Peter leans further, giving the older man the room to kiss lower and lower down his belly, inching towards his navel.

 

"I love you," Steve hums, kissing the red patch left over from his mouth, nosing his way back to Peter's neck, the younger tilting his head away and exposing more for the man to kiss and lick at, hands tightening just a bit on his hips. Peter drops one of his own from Tony's jaw to cover Steve's.

 

"I love you." He whispers again. He means it. He sways—they hold him. Tony pushes and lowers more; Steve's hand that isn't covered leaves Peter's waist to cup the younger's face and turn him towards the man, lips fitting together like they're meant to always be, sweet and addicting in all the most consoling ways.

 

He feels himself floating, but held so firmly in his body, in this moment—nothing is real, it can't be. He sways again and this time the entire world spins and Steve and Tony stay with him, touches and lips and warmth, and everything keeps spinning and melting like ice cream on a hot stove, and then the warmth doesn't quite leave but it cools, changes.

 

It's not all encompassing anymore; it has borders and definitions. One of Peter's shoulders doesn't feel it, and neither does his face, and he feels it too much at his spine and middle, and he swallows and it's a little dry so reaches blindly for a glass of water beside his bed, and—

 

His bed. He's in his bed.

 

He opens his eyes and it takes him a few seconds to realize there are tears budding there, and then it takes him a few more seconds to realize that he's cooled on his face and shoulder because the blankets fell off a little, and he's too warm on his spine and middle because he's so hard it hurts to be restrained by his boxers.

 

For once, he remembers his dream. He remembers every blaring detail of it and he feels like he’s been run over by a bus and he can't think, he's been awake for _seconds_ and he's so hard and the dream was so good and that's _terrible_ and immediately he's so overwhelmed he can’t form a coherent thought.

 

Tony, and Steve, and that warmth, and those touches, and he said— and they said— and—

 

Peter starts to hyperventilate and he can't wrap his brain around anything. There are too many thoughts firing off too loud and strong in his head. He's having a fucking panic attack. He shoves the blankets off himself as much as possible and takes trembling breaths, his chest rising and falling at a frightened rabbit pace, lying entirely on his back and squirming.

 

What the _fuck_ ? What the actual _fuck_?! Why did he dream that?! He- he has wet dreams and similar dreams featuring Steve and Tony all the time—even before they got involved (which was something he'd feel guilty about) and often now that they are.

 

And it's always been them, too, never a faceless figure or long-time crush from high school or attractive stranger he's seen once on the street or television, and yet he's never, _ever_ had a dream exactly like _that_. He's never dreamed of saying _that_ to them, he's never dreamed them saying it _back_.

 

Peter can't fucking breathe right. He can't think at all.

 

Jesus fucking _christ_ he's hard.

 

He reaches into his boxers to pull himself out and moans out loud at the immediate relief and the need for more. He's shaking so much it's hard to stroke himself but the rest of his body has no problem compensating, hips bucking up without him trying to, stuttering into his fist.

 

It feels so good it's crazy, he's never woken up so hard before in his life, and he's never woken up so panicked and _upset_. His mind, torn and unable to catch up, conjures the images from his dream. He remembers Tony's face and Steve's hands, their mouths, the heat they gave off, and _shit_ , he's already leaking precome into his uncoordinated fist.

 

But then he remembers the way he'd whispered to them, how they'd whispered back in his fantasy, and he sobs, the cry forcing its way out and he's not even sure _why_ because at the moment he isn’t mentally capable of processing anything but he's crying now. His hips move clumsily but faster and harder into his hand, which tries to keep up, and he feels _sick_ but his dick doesn't get the message.

 

Oh, _hell_ , he feels sick, he feels like he's going to puke. He feels like he’s going to puke from thinking about this dream. He can't breathe right and he's all over the place and it feels like his heart is going to claw its way out of his chest and then probably explode afterwards. He's having a _fucking_ panic attack, and he doesn't _understand_ , but every too-vivid recollection of hands and lips and words is making him jerk more desperately into his fist.

 

His hand can't decide between too loose and too tight and he's bucking up without a drop of coordination and his other hand is verging on tearing his hair out of his head. His eyes are shut tight but he's still crying, sobbing and choking through his throat's attempts to make it all go away by suffocating him.

 

It's as if his brain and body and dick specifically are all on different levels. Thinking about how right and good and perfect it felt to say that to them, to hear them say it back, makes his chest feel like it's caving in and his stomach churns. But it's also making him pump himself faster, inelegantly and awkward, waist thrusting upwards gracelessly and eagerly.

 

His body burns. The soothing warmth and heavenly intimacy from his dream is gone. He's sweating and writhing and crying pitifully as he can't stop himself from fucking into his fist.

 

Dammit he's barely _conscious_ , let alone coherent. Peter can't think of anything but his dream, and if he could, he'd be mortified at the picture he makes. Face and chest flushed and boxers uncomfortably stretched around his thighs, his whole body on fire, overwhelmed, trembling and wriggling on his bed, whimpering and crying and gasping for breath.

 

He can't focus. He's all torn up between how ridiculously fucking hard he is and the dream and his unidentifiable but _raging_ emotions and his body is doing its best to get him off but all he can wrap his head around is that dream. It's making him hot and needy, _desperate,_  but he _can't_ do this, he _can't want_ that, he can't touch himself like this and _want_ that.

 

He whines and wrenches his hand away from himself, closing his fist and pressing it against his side hard enough to bruise. He sobs out and groans like he's being tortured, chest stuttering as his hips keep moving, cock _weeping_ at the loss of contact.

 

It’s barely ten seconds before he can't stop from grabbing himself again—tugging his length without finesse, thrusting forward more vigorously than before, like his midsection knows he’s going to try and stop again, desperate to reach a release before his foggy, miserable brain can remove the friction. 

 

Peter whines high and shrill and shakes his head as if there’s anyone in the room to see. As if the cause of all his distress is coming from another person and not his _own damn self_. He coughs and shudders and moans pathetically, frantic to get the images, the soft spoken words out of his head. 

 

He _can’t_ , though, and it’s crazy. It’s driving him crazy but he knows down to his core that he can’t make himself come from thinking about Steve and Tony like that, so he suffers the pain and rips his hand away from himself once more. 

 

This time he doesn’t even last _five_ seconds until he’s rolling onto his stomach, hands scrambling and clutching at his pillow like a lifeline, natural instinct taking over. His hips buck down onto the soft sheets and he ruts into his mattress, dirtying the blanket and pillowcase with precome and not having the brain capacity to care. 

 

Pictures of Tony’s shining eyes and Steve’s sharp jaw, the ghosts of their hands on his thighs and waist, faux memory of their lips and the way those words rolled out of their mouths _so easily_ , all overwhelm Peter again. He sobs openly into his pillow, ruining it with drool and tears as he buries his face in the plush and grinds sloppily against his bed. 

 

It’s _wrong_. It’s so wrong and awful, and Peter knows that it is; the queasiness in his belly that might be the only reason the pressure in his groin hasn’t erupted yet knows that it’s wrong, he’s crying because he knows this isn’t right. He can’t do that to them, can’t drag them into the mess that is Peter’s mind right now. 

 

He cries out and muffles it in his pillow and pushes himself up, balling his body into the fetal position and wrapping his arms around his knees, clutching his legs to his chest as tightly as he possibly can. He cuts off his dick’s access to friction and cries as it makes him lurch and writhe involuntarily, back and hips not yet getting the message. 

 

The action smears precome on his belly. He's leaking so profusely it’s like his length is crying just as much as his eyes, and it makes his thighs and arms quiver, but he holds tighter and tighter and squeezes his eyes shut and sobs, waiting for his body to stop twitching with need. 

 

_Fuck._

 

He lays there, trying every breathing technique he knows, reciting elements and pi and the formulas he's supposed to be learning and the script of Empire Strikes Back, trembling and hips jerking. It takes him a few minutes to calm down enough to process coherent thoughts, and when he does, he almost wishes he was back to the mindless mess of a person from when he first woke up. 

 

His cries had died to sniffling but he starts up again now. _Fuck_. He doesn’t want to think about this. He doesn’t have the energy to think about this and it fucking sucks and why does he have to be so messed up and confused?

 

When he’s lucid enough to function properly, he makes a beeline out of his room. Every movement he takes to drag himself into the bathroom is miserable and he cranks a shower so cold he thinks it might give him frostbite. But he bathes under the water, which mercifully rids him of his erection, and he steps out shivering, teeth chattering, clean of sweat and smelling like shampoo. 

 

He strips his bed—because he’s not going to ignore the stains of precome from his dick and hand on the sheets and pillowcase—and goes through two cups of coffee before he finally checks his phone. 

 

He has picture messages from Ned (which can only be memes his friend wanted to share), a notification that Wade tagged him in a post on Instagram, and a text from Steve. 

 

He opens his social media first and sees a photo Wade snapped while they were running around admiring the stars. In it the two of them side by side, Wade's arm slung over Peter's shoulders, both supposed to be posing for the camera but distracted and looking at the sky (just a plane, unfortunately, not a satellite or shooting star, and they hadn’t even started smoking yet at that time) right as the picture was taken, Peter looking up and Wade’s face blurry as he’s moving to do the same. 

 

It’s a nice picture. Peter saves it, then reads the caption, “Love doing illegal activities with my favorite twink ;)” and comments a response of, “You’re insane”, though he smiles fondly. Then he checks Steve’s text. 

 

**Stebe: Coming over later today?**

 

And Peter replies

 

**Yup, see you this afternoon ?**

 

because what happened when he woke up was… a blip. Just a blip in his subconscious. He’s been watching too many romcoms lately, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s wondering about and maybe even wishing for a love to call his and his alone, and wondering about his future, just like probably every other person on the planet has, at some point. 

 

Of course his brain would push those thoughts onto Steve and Tony, without his consciousness active to stop it from happening. They’re sweet and caring and fun and really, really good at sex, and Peter spends a significant portion of his time with them. Obviously they would be his subconscious’s first pick for fantasizing about love. 

 

Just like MJ was in high school, and Harry from elementary through junior high, and countless of those faceless figures and attractive strangers throughout his life.

 

It’s not because Peter- not because he actually feels that way about them. Because that would be absurd and completely irresponsible of him, considering that Steve and Tony may have opened up to him, and they may care about him, but they’re _married_ and Peter would have to be a genuine asshole to even think about intruding on that. 

 

It’s just his dick and the crisis that is his love life conspiring against him. 

 

He simply couldn’t process that right when he woke up, and that’s why it was such a struggle. Simple. Entirely simple. One hundred and ten percent simple and done with and not an issue at all. A blip. Nothing more.

 

Peter pours himself a third cup of coffee. 

 

**Stebe: Sounds great**

 

Peter looks at the pictures Ned sent him and responds with gifs and emoticons and a number of keyboard smashing to express his amusement. On another morning he might have found the random memes more funny, but today’s starting off a bit rough. 

 

The only on campus classes he has this morning and afternoon are from 10:00 to 12:00 and 2:30 to 5:00, both lectures, and he’s off work until next Tuesday at the earliest (thank you, Barb from the editorial department, for convincing Jameson that they have enough photos to last until next week even) and it’s Friday now, so he won’t have any problem going over to the Stark-Rogers’ house. He’ll probably end up spending the night, and maybe even staying Saturday night there, too. 

 

Which would be great, because Steve and Tony recently bought ingredients to make their own ramen entirely from scratch (minus the literal chickens), and Peter doesn’t want to miss out on that.

 

He eats toast for breakfast and gets dressed, pulling on a garnet red bomber style jacket with midnight blue cuffs and collar, something that the husbands had picked out for him a short while ago.

 

_(“Tony, what is this?”_

 

_“A gift.”_

 

_“For what?”_

 

_“Do we need a reason?”_

 

_“Usually, especially when it’s something that costs_ sixty dollars _.”_

 

_“Consider it an early birthday present.”_

 

_“My birthday isn’t for months.”_

 

_“Consider it a_ very _early birthday present.”_

 

_“Steeeve,”_

 

_“What? It’s chilly out and you wore through your winter jacket.”_

 

_“It’s April.”_

 

_“And it’s cold and now you won’t be. You’re welcome.”_

 

_“Thank you, but I can’t take this, guys.”_

 

_“Sure you can. See?-”_

 

_“-there. Now you’ve taken it.”_

 

_“It looks good on you, Pete. How’s it feel?”_

 

_“It’s great, Tony, but I- I can’t-”_

 

_“Yes you can, Peter. This won’t make a horrible dent in our financial stability, remember? And you don’t even have any quality jackets. Let us spoil you a little.”_

 

_“All you do is spoil me.”_

 

_“Are you complaining?”_

 

_“I mean… maybe a little…”_

 

_“Seriously?”_

 

_“No, but I still feel bad.”_

 

_“Don’t. Besides, if it’s really too much-”_

 

_“- I’m sure we can find some way for you to repay us.”_

 

_“... I’m listening,”_

 

_“Mmm, you always are, pretty thing,”)_

 

It’s incredibly soft and Peter never really considered colors much but he was pretty sure red and blue weren’t supposed to go together that well (they’re both too loud, MJ had told him once), but the jacket is a good look. And it looks good on him, which is both miraculous and something even Peter himself can’t deny. 

 

While brushing his teeth he tries to fix his hair and gives up quickly. He doesn’t have the energy for that this morning. But Ned is in his 2pm class and he gets to see Steve and Tony after, which despite the… blip… is something that never fails to make him happy. 

 

Peter zips the pocket his key is in and plugs in his earbuds for the walk to the subway. For once, it’s not raining.

 

* * *

 

“I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay?” Ned says, walking off in the other direction. He’s grinning like mad and Peter can’t help return the smile, knowing that his best friend is so excited. After a few weeks of stressing, including yesterday’s turmoil over the cinema, Ned’s finally going to formally ask Betty out. (Again). 

 

Peter’s happy for him, and Ned’s elation is contagious, and he waves his friend off, calling after him, “M’kay, I’ll see you soon!”

 

He turns his back at the same time Ned does and adjusts his backpack, thumbing at a frayed thread on the strap. He feels a lot better now than he did when he woke up. A lot better. 

 

The fact that his dream’s clarity has faded significantly with waking up more and going to class probably helps. 

 

It’s a lot longer of a distance from Peter’s school to Steve and Tony’s house, but fortunately, he actually remembered his wallet and won’t have to walk like he did a few days ago from the Bugle. There’s a bus pulling up to its stop just as Peter gets there, lucky, and in a short while it’ll drop him off a couple blocks from the husband’s house. 

 

He sits near the back and puts his earbuds in again, pretending his music is loud enough not to hear the guy making clicking noises at him a few seats ahead, but mouthing ‘thank you’ at the woman who tells the man to piss off. Her hair is fiery red and faded blonde at the bottom, french braided down the middle, and she gives him a smirk rather than a smile, but it’s comforting nonetheless. 

 

Halfway through the opening song of the Lion King, his stop arrives, and he smiles appreciatively at the redhead as he gets off. She nods in acknowledgement but is otherwise occupied by the crossword she’s been looking at for the last ten minutes or so. 

 

Peter decides not to let his mind wander to the proper hell the couple would’ve raised on the bus, the way they do any time anyone is being harassed or even bothered. It’s not a bad thing. In fact it’s a good thing—something that Peter appreciates and admires very much in them.

 

But sometimes (excluding the actual harassment, with which Peter couldn’t find a fault in their reactions if he wanted to—and he doesn’t want to) it’s like they forget that they live in the city. Some people restore your faith in humanity and awe you with their talents and openness and compassion, and some people are just fucking weird. 

 

As he’s walking and thinking and fiddling with the same frayed thread from before, he passes by a tattoo parlor. He’s seen it a million times before on this walk, but something new in the window catches his eye. 

 

It’s a sketch. A drawing of a spider. And it’s beautiful. 

 

Peter wouldn’t say that he finds many insect or arachnid or general bug (or snake or scorpion, etcetera) artwork beautiful. Sure there are exceptions and sure it can look really cool, but _pretty_ has never been the word he’d use to describe them. 

 

This spider though? It’s pretty. It’s really pretty. It’s a melt of blue and red and black, looks like it was drawn with an old, calligraphy style ink pen, and resembles more of a symbol or emblem than an actual realistic spider. It’s across the street and rather small but it’s cool enough for Peter to snap a picture of on his phone. 

 

The walk signal blinks up and he hurries across the street, mentally glancing back at the drawing in the window. 

 

Should he get it? He doesn’t have any opinions about tattoos. He’s not fond of pain, but, for something he likes enough to have permanently inked onto his skin, he thinks he’d suffer through.

 

Does he like the spider enough? It is a spider, which he doesn’t love, and he only saw it a minute ago, and it has no significance to him at all. Still, he’s the prime age for spontaneous tattoos and, _come on_ , it’s a beautiful image. 

 

Where would he put it? 

 

His brain is swirling with thoughts of the spider tattoo, so much so that he barely registers he’s arrived at the Stark-Rogers house until he’s banging his usual one knock on the door and twisting the handle. 

 

They must have really been expecting him though (maybe he was too distracted by his thoughts to realize the window facing the street had curtains pulled back in the corner), because before he even finishes pushing open the door, it’s being swung in. 

 

Peter’s hold on the handle and his surprise make him stumble forward, but Tony is quick to catch him, spinning him inside and slamming the door closed behind them. 

 

“You’re wearing the jacket!” The engineer exclaims. He has a smudge of grease on his face, no doubt having been working in his “office” (lab/workshop/den/cave/dungeon/personal black hole, all of the above, as per Steve and Peter’s observations) at the back of the house, trying to complete his latest AI projects. 

 

“I am wearing the jacket,” Peter muses, taking the tone of someone entertained by Tony’s childish glee (which he is) ~~, as if he didn’t sleep in the thing the first night they gave it to him, still being able to smell the faint cologne and laundry detergent and air freshener that was entirely the scent of Steve and Tony’s home, aka the safest and happiest place on earth (screw Disney world)(actually, don’t screw Disney world, Peter was listening to the Lion King soundtrack on his way over for chrissake, please take him to Disney world)~~. 

 

Tony hums in content and half drags Peter into the living room, taking in a deep breath at the younger’s crown. 

 

“I missed you,” he says contently. Peter laughs a little. 

 

“You saw me yesterday,” he murmurs into Tony’s shoulder where the man has him tucked in. He winds his arms around the other’s broad chest and back anyways. Sue him, twenty four hours is a long time. 

 

“Wish I could see you all day, every day,” Tony sighs. It’s not even meant to be sappy and Peter tilts his chin up to peck the underside of the man’s jaw. 

 

“Me too.” He says. It’s true. 

 

Steve appears a moment later, and he’s got paint up both of his arms and all over his button up, which is distracting in being unbuttoned at the top two notches, and Peter realizes they must have had a working day, Tony in his office and Steve in his small home studio. 

 

“Why must you always reconcile without me?” He pouts playfully, coming up to them and wrapping his arms around them both. 

 

“You’re just a slow poke,” Tony huffs, turning to smirk at the knowing way Steve looks at him, “It’s a race and I always win.” 

 

Peter giggles and Steve retaliates by poking Tony in the side, making the man laugh and worm out of their dual grip. 

 

“Hey, we’re ordering take out tonight for dinner, what’re you in the mood for?” The artist asks, turning to Peter. He frowns (only a little). 

 

“No ramen?” (he’s not disappointed at all.) 

 

Tony chuckles and returns to them to pet the younger’s hair back and kiss his forehead. “Tomorrow, sweetheart, we’ll make that for dinner tomorrow.” 

 

Peter nods and he’s still definitely not making any kind of petulant faces at all, but Steve feels the need to grab his chin and coo at him that he’s cute when he pouts. He shoos the hand away but smiles, appeased that the ramen will still be happening. 

 

“Hmm, I dunno. What do you guys want?”

 

Tony grumbles and says they’ve been indecisive about it for the last half hour, so Peter pulls himself together and suggests Chinese.

 

“Even though we’re having Asian tomorrow, also?” 

 

“Ok, then Greek. I can always go for a gyro. Oh, no, wait wait wait, what was that called? The stuff we ate at, uhm, I don’t remember the name. Started with a ‘P’ maybe? I got k- kalamari? Kalamari ti- ti-...”

 

“Kalamarakia tiganita?” Tony finishes. Of course Tony would know what he’s talking about. Tony knows everything in the world, probably. 

 

“Yes!” Peter exclaims excitedly. 

 

“I don’t think Periyali delivers, but I’m sure we can find a place that does.” The engineer says, face soft at Peter’s excitement. Right, right, the younger thinks. They’d taken a day trip to Brooklyn to check out some of Steve’s favorite places that he used to draw when he lived there, and made a little venture out of the event, driving through Manhattan and Queens. 

 

Wasting gas and time, basically, but they had fun, and ate Greek food and Peter enjoyed it very much, thank you. 

 

They migrate to the kitchen, where Tony’s tablet is sitting on the table, and pick out a Greek restaurant to get their food from. 

 

Peter requests that delicious squid meal he had before, plus a soup with lemon that he tried from Steve’s plate last time and had really liked. As Tony’s placing their order online, the artist asks Peter about his walk over, and the younger suddenly remembers the spider drawing. 

 

“I saw this tattoo sketch, and it looked really cool, I took a picture of it-” he fishes his phone out of his pocket, “-and I like it a lot, and I was kinda thinking about getting it but I don’t want to just assume I’m going to like it, you know? And I don’t know how it would look on me or where to get it, so,” He finishes, putting his phone on the table to show the couple the sketch. 

 

“A spider, huh? That’s pretty cool,” Tony muses, typing in his card information. 

 

“Oh, yeah, I’d want to be able to freak out kids at birthday parties and stuff,” Peter quips. Tony smirks at him. 

 

“You’d have to get a lot more than one tattoo of an arachnid for that, kid. You’re too cute to scare children.” 

 

Peter rolls his eyes and looks to Steve, who’s been studying the picture on his screen. 

 

“You like this?” He asks. It’s not accusatory, just a confirmation. 

 

“Yup.” Peter pops the p and reaches for his phone, but the artist doesn’t hand it back all the way, pauses as he holds it out. 

 

“I could draw it for you, on you,” the man offers. “Let you see what it would look like.” 

 

Peter’s brows shoot up. 

 

“For real? Actually?” He’s already grinning. Pros of knowing professional artists, he thinks. 

 

“For real, actually.” Steve replies with a grin. 

 

“That’d be really cool, Steve. And helpful. Yeah, could, could you do that? That would be great, please.” The younger stumbles, glancing at Tony, who’s just smiling at the laptop as he clicks and types. 

 

“Yes, Pete, I could do that. But, only if you let me paint whatever I want on you, also.” Steve bargains. That sounds like a win to Peter. 

 

“Deal!” He grins, holding out his hand. Steve shakes it, because he’s a good sport who entertains Peter’s nonsense, but then he doesn’t let go and lifts Peter’s hand up and past his head, so all he has to do is turn to plant a kiss over the tendons at the center of Peter’s wrist, because he’s also sappy. 

 

Which gives Peter an idea, and he cocks his head to the side. 

 

“What do you think about putting it on my arm? Like, right there on my wrist. How would that look?” He wonders. Steve hums and kisses the same spot again, then once more a little further up Peter’s forearm. 

 

“Not a bad spot. Lots of people put tattoos on their wrists. It’s subtle, but not too subtle so that you miss it, and it’s a place where you can easily see it and show it off when you want to, as opposed to your back or leg or something.” The man says. Peter nods, agreeing, already trying to imagine the delicate little spider with all it’s flared ends and cursive-like twists on his skin. 

 

He’s never been much of a visual person, though. 

 

So after they’ve finished eating their Greek take-out and stuffed the paper-board delivery boxes into recycling bins, Peter sits down on the living room floor, in that particular spot that he always does, and holds out his wrist. 

 

Steve sits in front of him, box of paints and brushes beside him, re-adjusting his own rolled up sleeves before taking hold of Peter’s wrist. Without his jacket he’s in nothing but a t-shirt and it’s a little bit chilly in the room. Goosebumps appear on his upper arms and lower back, but it’s not too bad. 

 

The artist goes to work right away, regularly eyeing Peter’s phone screen, where the image from the tattoo parlor is pulled up. Peter can’t decide between watching or not watching, so he settles for talking to Tony about his project and checking in with Steve’s progress. 

 

All in all, it doesn’t take long for the older man to finish painting.

 

It looks better than the drawing in the shop. Maybe that’s because this is close up or maybe that’s because Steve painted it, but it does. There’s a fluid elegance to every line of the spider’s body, to all eight legs, like it’s the result of some graceful dance by the paint brushes. Steve picked different shades of blue and red than the original sketch and he added specks of gold, making layers and shadows in the even the plain black, and the whole thing looks downright majestic. 

 

“Steve, this is _amazing_!” Peter gasps. He holds his own arm, afraid to put his fingers anywhere near the fresh paint, but he stares openly with awe. 

 

“Yeah? I’m glad you like it,” the man smiles, putting away the paints. “What do you think? Tattoo? No tattoo?” 

 

Peter tilts his head. It’s beautiful, really, but after the initial awe of the drawing and this painting fades, he’s not sure if he feels attached enough to want it inked onto his body. 

 

“Dunno, I’ll decide later. But it’s beautiful, you’re so talented,” the younger responds, beaming up at the artist. Steve seems to take the stroke to his ego in stride, offering a little bow of his head and a good-natured laugh. 

 

“So they tell me. Now lay down and take off your shirt,” he says. Peter almost gets whiplash.

 

“W-what?” 

 

Steve chuckles and from beside him, so does Tony. 

 

“I get to paint what I want on you now, remember? So take off your shirt and lay down,” the artist repeats, gesturing for Peter to get on with it. Tony grabs a pillow off the couch and sets it on the floor, so that when the younger does manage to remove his shirt without smudging the spider, he can rest his head on the soft throw pillow instead of carpet flooring. 

 

“What are you gonna paint?” He asks, getting comfortable even though he’s distinctly cold now. Steve just hums. 

 

“You’ll see. Now don’t peak, it’s a surprise.” 

 

Peter huffs a little at that, as it is his body being painted on, but he relaxes in his spot and turns his head away from Steve, looking at Tony. 

 

The engineer keeps him busy asking about classes and telling Peter about his progress with his newest undertaking. He's working on an AI made specifically for hacking his other AI’s and repairing their code without Tony himself ever having to get ahold of the programs. It’s a bit difficult to pay attention, though, when the brushes are so cold and tickle his stomach and side. 

 

Steve tugs his jeans down, slightly, not to suggest anything, but every time he swipes a brush full of colorful paint over Peter’s hip the younger can’t help but squirm. He’s pretty sure the artist takes extra care to intentionally tickle him when he paints the smaller man’s ribs, letting the bristles and cold paint tease the sensitive skin of each small rise and dip in his torso. 

 

One big, wide stroke from his chest all the way down to his navel has Peter turning his head to see, but Tony catches his chin and turns him back, then drops his mouth and kisses him. 

 

The long brushes tickle the worst, Peter realizes, and he can’t stop himself from wiggling around and suppressing squeaks into little whimpers. He can’t see, but he knows Steve must be smiling, and he tries to imagine what the man is painting. 

 

Tony croons at him when one of the large motions reaches his waist and the combination of tickling sensation and cold has him squeezing his thighs together, the older man kissing his cheeks and lips and crowding his space so he doesn't see what the engineer’s husband is doing. 

 

“Responsive, hm?” Tony says, eyes crinkling from his smile. Peter huffs out indignantly. 

 

“‘s just cold, tha’s all,” he says, but Tony just nods and hums in a fake ‘I believe you’ kind of way. 

 

“It feels a little cold, angel?” Steve asks from above. Peter’s in the middle of nodding when he feels one of Steve’s large, hot hands on the side he isn’t painting—and then a sharp, cold breath on the wet paint on his belly. 

 

He jolts and instinctively tries to sit up and push at Steve’s shoulders, but Tony’s still hovering over him and quickly catches his dainty wrists, kissing him hard and forcing Peter’s head back down on the pillow, pinning both of his hands in one big palm above the smaller’s head.

 

“Not fair,” Peter whines when Tony pulls away, feeling Steve laugh directly onto the paint, but, oh, now that’s warm breath, and it feels _a lot_ better than the cold. 

 

“Oh, poor sensitive baby,” the artist coos. Peter tugs at his wrists but Tony just tuts, grinning in amusement and sprinkling soft kisses over the younger’s cheeks. 

 

“I’m just making sure you don’t look, lovely,” he says. Peter squints at him and the man laughs at his indignation, other hand trailing away to where Peter can’t see and rubbing his chest where he assumes there isn’t any paint. 

 

Steve finishes his work a little while later, Tony keeping Peter occupied with kisses the entire time. They don’t let him up quite yet, the engineer still nosing at the younger’s jaw and the artist slowly petting Peter’s jean-clad thighs. 

 

The kisses and the touches definitely have an effect, and Peter’s young, he can’t help the interest his dick begins to take in the warm but comparatively burning hot hands on his chest and thighs. 

 

“So cute,” Steve murmurs, kissing lightly at Peter’s lower belly, peppering gentle kisses to more places Peter has to assume there’s either no or already dried paint. 

 

He squirms a little with the hot breath and warm contact, but he doesn’t get hard enough to be _too_ embarrassing when the husbands finally let him up. He looks down at himself and gasps, the way Tony brushes his hair away from his face going entirely unnoticed as he scrambles up to see himself in the reflection of the tv. 

 

Even looking via the black surface, the art is stunning. 

 

It’s the butterfly. Peter realizes so with no small amount of joy. The butterfly that had landed on his face at the tent when they went out to lunch yesterday. 

 

“You- you painted the-!” He can’t even form words, he’s just so impressed and flattered.

 

It’s beautiful. Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be. The painting takes up most of his side, stomach, and lower chest, the insect at an angle with its wings spread out, showing off all the colors. The orange and purple and yellow and blue, somehow capturing the shimmering and luminescent gold specks, detailed and a little messy (as per Steve’s style) and absolutely perfect. 

 

“The butterfly,” Steve finishes for him. He looks up with a proud and delighted expression as he watches Peter inspect and admire his work, “Sure did, princess.” 

 

The resurface of that nickname does things Peter doesn’t need to think about right now, so he just keeps beaming, turning and twisting and pulling a little at the taut skin of his tummy, appreciating the view of the art. 

 

“It’s beautiful, Steve, seriously, this is beautiful, you’re- you’re absolutely insane, it is so insane what you can do,” he gushes, smiling like a fool. It really is amazing. Steve is incredibly gifted, Peter’s known this since the beginning, but it’s always a joy to be reminded of just how skillful the artist is. 

 

Steve just accepts the compliments and cocks his head. “Well, I have a pretty incredible muse,” he says. He looks at Tony and then at Peter and then focuses back on the butterfly, his expression soft and open. 

 

"Mm, hang on," he says, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his phone. "Turn to me again, Pete," 

 

Peter obeys the request, not thinking through enough to wipe the amazed look off his face before Steve's lowering his phone again, having taken the picture he wanted. 

 

"I'm sending that to Bucky," the man grins, and Peter definitely does not flush a little pink at the thought.  

 

“Oh! Almost forgot,” Steve exclaims. He digs into his box once more and pulling out a very small brush. He dips it in the same vibrant yellow that accents the butterfly's eye spots and shuffles forward on his knees, grabbing Peter behind one leg, in the middle of the length of his thigh and pulling the younger towards him. Peter almost loses his balance but grips Steve’s shoulders and watches as the man adds one final touch to the corner of the bottom wing, just at the smaller’s lithe waist. 

 

When Steve pulls back, Peter has the opportunity to lean over and turn towards the tv again, realizing with a jolt of _something_ that the man signed his art. Signed _Peter_. 

 

There’s something almost painfully possessive in the action, and Peter can’t tell if that something is more awe inspiring or more of a turn on, but both are definitely happening. He eyes the bright, pale yellow paint and swallows thickly. 

 

The couple must be feeling something similar, too, because Tony tilts his head and smirks, standing up and putting one large hand on Peter’s bare shoulder, making the younger turn towards him a little so he can inspect the signature for himself.

 

“That’s sexy,” he deadpans, nipping Peter’s shoulder after he does. He and his husband laugh and Peter does too, grabbing the pillow he’d been resting his head on and swatting Tony with it. 

 

Tony snatches it from him to swat him back, and somehow, someway, they manage to lose it in the pillow swatting and escalate to pillow throwing, then proper pillow fighting. There are so many goddamn pillows in this living room, it’s excessive. And now, it’s perfect. 

 

Tony throws pillows at Peter and Steve and Peter throws pillows at Tony and Steve and Steve throws pillows at both of them, and Peter decides it’s time to bring out the big guns (i.e. the large hefty pillows from the couple’s bedroom), making a break for the hallway. Tony beats him there, though, catching him just in time and grabbing Peter around the waist, using both of their running momentum to swing him around in circles and drag him back to the living room.

 

The younger shrieks and laughs and flails about, going haywire in attacking the older man’s arms with the pillow he still has, trying to escape. Tony keeps spinning him around, only stopping when Steve makes it to them and reaches out to attack Peter’s sides. 

 

Peter can’t help laughing at the relentless tickling, kicking out and trying to both squirm away and fend off Steve with his one defense pillow, but he gasps almost scandalized at the husbands’ actions. 

 

“N-no th-th-ah! The p-paint, Ste-eve-!” It’s hard to express his concern when he’s laughing so hard, but he tries and wriggles in Tony’s grasp. “Y-you’re gonna- ahha- it’s gonna g-get messed u-up!” He shouts and squeals and it’s impossible to hold back the giggling as his ribs and backs of his knees and his neck, anywhere the artist can reach, are attacked by the tickling fingers. 

 

Steve just laughs and continues and beams at him like he’s light of the fucking world. 

 

“I’ll paint it again,” he consoles, having the time of his life bringing Peter to tears with the teasing, “I’ll paint it again and again and again,” he continues, slowly lightening up on the tickling until he’s able to move closer, crowding up against Peter and squishing him between the two older men. 

 

“I’ll keep painting it over,” the artist declares, dropping his head to assault Peter’s face with kisses, still slightly tickling the younger’s sides. Peter giggles and squirms but he can’t push the other away, Tony holding him too tight and Steve staying firm, hands causing mayhem and littering his face in quick, feather-light kisses, the two of them smothering the smaller between them. 

 

The moment Steve starts to back off, though, wide smile on his face that matches his husband and the younger both— 

 

Peter swats him in the face with his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Benedict Cumberbatch thwarting-Tom-spoiling-things-during-the-IW-press-tour-“I’ll answer that”-voice* Another reminder that once again, regardless of the angst, this still does/will boil down to self indulgence, which roughly translates to: Peter Parker gets fucked bc I said so <3
> 
> Hmm why yes that fiery redhead was Natasha Romanoff and no she is not a one-time-mentioned random stranger. I love spoiling my own stories. 
> 
> P.p.s. thanks Lurafita for the prompt of Steve drawing on Peter !! I ran with it <3
> 
> Thanks v much for reading, hope you enjoyed *insert kissy faces bc i'm still on pc*


	5. Two Steps Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: Peter Talks To People (Because The Chapter Is 70% Dialogue)
> 
> Listen. How am I supposed to convey that I am an absolute gremlin with an obsession if I don’t update exactly once every three months, to show that I am both incapable of functioning and incapable of forgetting this story? 
> 
> Kidding! I’m kidding. No more promises but for the record I will not abandon this series and I am going to try to update more, for real this time. Hopefully :)))) 
> 
> \+ This isn’t especially relevant to this chapter but general PSA that I have never lived in NYC and will not dedicate more than three (3) google searches to making sure things make sense, so. For locals and curious, confused folks: that’s why there’s probably geographical mishaps :D
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and waiting on my slow ass updates babes <3 Hope you like the chapter ;D

Peter has lunch with May on Wednesdays.

 

It’s their “thing” (or, one of). He eats with her and they go out or spend time together whenever they can, really, but lunch on Wednesdays is a solid rule that they both do their absolute best to never break. 

 

He has a morning lab and then his biochem class, which ends at 11:30, and May sometimes works shifts that end at noon or 1:00, so they don’t always eat at the same time and often not at the same place, but they always make lunch on Wednesdays.

 

For almost seven days, Peter has been thinking about Steve and Tony. Not that he doesn’t normally think about them, but usually he can keep the nerves under wraps. Usually he’s pretty good at avoiding overthinking their relationship. 

 

He has seriously not been avoiding overthinking their relationship. 

 

The good news is that he’s meeting May at her apartment in about twenty minutes for chicken gnocchi soup and store-bought asiago bread, so he can talk to her about it. 

 

May always seems to know what to say and always gives the best advice. It’s nice to have someone with more experience in life to go to for help, that’s just obvious, but there’s something about the soft lines around her smile and the crinkles in the corners of her eyes that bring Peter back to every scraped knee and bumped elbow of his childhood ~~post his parents’ accident~~.

 

His aunt feels safe and welcoming, and she always knows how to help. 

 

Even if she doesn’t really know what she’s helping with. 

 

Like, say, with Peter’s relationship with Steve and Tony. 

 

It’s not that he hasn’t told his aunt that he’s been seeing… someone. How could he not? When he disappears to their house every other day, spends every other weekend with them, answering texts and calls each day?

 

It’s just that he hasn’t told her the details. He’s kept it honest: it’s not serious, and if anything of importance happens, he’ll let her know. 

 

Peter isn’t keeping secrets from his only living relative. He just isn’t telling her every single detail about his romantic life (or,  _ shudder _ , sex life). 

 

So May doesn’t know that the “someone” Peter has been seeing is actually two someones. Or that they’re both ten years older than Peter. Or that they both turned out to be wildly successful and quite famous in their professions and are richer than Peter could ever dream of being and that they frequently spend copious amounts of money treating him to gifts and food.

 

Or that they lived next door to Peter’s apartment and the relationship began when Peter got wasted and lost his keys and spent the night with them, and then fucked them a day later. 

 

She also doesn’t know that they’re married.

 

In retrospect there is a lot of very important context that May knows nothing about, but Peter has been rehearsing how to delicately explain his situation so that he can still get the advice he needs. 

 

Mainly, so May can tell him what to do about totally not being in love with the guys he’s been practically half living with and having sex with since autumn.

 

So there are plot holes to this plan, but Peter’s hoping to have carefully crafted a way to dodge those. 

 

He starts out strong: tripping through the doorway, almost dropping a plate, nearly knocking over his glass of water and replying to “Do you want your asiago buttered or toasted or both?” with “Yes.” to immediately alert his aunt to the fact that something is Up. But she doesn’t mention it until they’re half way through their gnocchi. 

 

“So. You seem a little off. Wanna tell me what’s going on?” May asks through a mouthful of pasta. 

 

“Um, yeah. Actually…” _ Come on, Parker, just talk to her! _ “I was wondering if I could ask you about some… uh, some relationship advice?” 

 

“ _ Relationship advice _ ?”

 

“Yeah. I was just.. I had some questions. Kind of.”

 

“Ah. Ok, well, hit me with ‘em. What’s up?” 

 

“Right, right. So…” Shit. He rehearsed this. He  _ rehearsed  _ it, he has a script. Stick to the script and this will go perfectly smoothly. “I just… We aren’t serious. But we kind of are? I… I spend a lot of time with them—this  _ person— _ and I talk to them a lot, and it’s really personal, I guess. We’re really, really close.”

 

“Wait, is this going to be about sex? Because if you’re asking me for sex advice, as much as I love you, I might have to tap out and refer you to some search engines on the internet-”

 

“No! No, god no, it’s not- it’s not about sex, May. Jeez, no. Absolutely not.” 

 

“Oh,” May sighs, clearly immensely relieved and Peter loves her all the more for the effortless, unintentional way she reminds him that there is no tension between them. That he’s unconditionally safe with her. “Alright, well, continue then. So you’re very close to this person?” 

 

“Yeah, really close. But we’re not serious, if that makes sense? We don’t- I don’t want to push for labels or something or constantly be asking about ‘what we are’ and stuff, you know? But I don’t actually know where I stand with them. Like, we never talked about it at all and sometimes that’s relaxing, to not feel like there are standards to fit, but I just…” He pauses, takes a bite of gnocchi, takes a drink of water. Breathes. 

 

“I really like them. I really, really like them. And I don’t know if it’s reciprocated that way. On one hand, I feel like they have to like me a lot for us to spend this much time together and be this close for this long, right? But at the same time… there’s, there are a lot of reasons why they wouldn’t feel the same. And I just don’t know what to do.

 

“Because they are… this person is older than me. By a _bit_. And I’m not going to be twenty and in college forever, you know? I’m going to get older and hopefully a little taller and I won’t look the same or act the exact same, and, god, I can’t believe I’m saying this to you, but,  _ yeah _ , I won’t have the same  _ appeal  _ forever. And everything else too with- with moving and settling down and  _ kids  _ and all that stuff that comes with life after college, I just-”

 

He cringes at the way he’s starting to ramble, insecurities falling out and  _ oh god  _ he is straying from the script, he has entered the danger zone. But he can’t stop talking. 

 

With no less love or appreciation or respect for his aunt and his friends—he’s going to grow up (more than he already has since, like, middle school and stuff) and get an occupation that fits his degree, he might travel, move out of his apartment, and he’s going to want someone he can love,  _ romantically love _ , who is only his. And that’s just not how it is with Steve and Tony.

 

They already belong to each other and even though it’s been months, Peter still feels like, from an objective point of view, he’s just a phase to them. 

 

He’s a goddamn _twink_ (Peter's starting to hate that word) for them to fuck together to make sex more interesting for a while, something delicate that they can dote on with a love language that is overwhelming affection, but they don’t want him or  _ love  _ him the way they do each other and he is going to get older and ~~hopefully~~ wiser and lose his fucking college kid appeal eventually.  _ If they even get that far _ . 

 

(And  _ jesus _ , what has been with Peter and kids lately? He doesn’t even  _ want  _ kids, he doesn’t think, but what if Steve and Tony do? Or, what if they don’t and it turns out Peter does? They just built a house in New York, what if Peter wants to move to a different city? A different state? Hell, what if Peter moves to a different  _ country _ ? Or what if Peter’s heart and soul stay in Queens and Steve and Tony, who are wealthy and damn near famous, want to sell their house and move somewhere else?

 

What if none of those questions matter because before even one full year of their _arrangement_ the couple decide they’re no longer interested in the threesome game or Peter finally annoys them too much and it’s all  _ over _ ?)

 

He can’t say any of  _ that  _ to May, of course. But he can allude to it, right?

 

“I’m not making any sense but, the point is, I know they care about me a lot but I think I care about them a lot more in a different way and I’m scared that they’re going to… grow out of me, I guess. I’m scared because I like them so much and don’t want to lose them, but also because I don’t want to expect something more than I’m going to get, or intrude, or, I don’t know. I don’t want to do something wrong.” 

 

He finishes on what hopefully is more articulate and compelling than how it felt, and drowns the rest of his sorrows in his remaining gnocchi. 

 

May just kind of stares at him for a moment. She stares and she processes and she appraises and Peter feels like he’s being analyzed under a microscope—all his secrets laid out without any hope of concealing. 

 

“Well,” she breathes, taking a long sip of wine. “First of all, Peter, I trust you to make your own decisions but I can’t ask you enough to be careful about dating older people, especially since you’re so worried that you might just be a ‘phase’ for this person.”

 

Peter feels his chest tighten up. 

 

“ _ However _ , if this person really cares about you, honey, you’ll figure it out. You won’t ‘lose your appeal’. They won’t ‘grow out of you’ if they really care, and in healthy relationships with communication and trust, you can work out everything else with,  _ gosh _ , kids and careers and whatnot.”

 

May finishes off her gnocchi and pushes her plate away from her, looking up at Peter with those kind eyes and that soft smile that make him feel at home. 

 

“But you’ve only been seeing this person for, what? Seven months? Six? Eight? If you aren’t ready to think about your future with this person and you’re happier living each day as it comes, then  _ that’s  _ what you should do. You don’t have to spend all your time contemplating whether or not you’re going to- to get  _ married  _ and spend the rest of your lives together, Peter. Just take it easy. Enjoy what you have when you have it, and if you need to make decisions later, then you make them then.

 

I mean, it’s always good to think about these things  _ sometimes _ , to consider the consequences of your actions and to be  _ prepared  _ for the decision making, but you aren’t doing yourself any favors by worrying about this. And,  _ Peter _ , if you really want to know exactly where you stand together, just talk about it. Contrary to what the poets say, hon, love is not war.” 

 

She gets a small, fond, sad look on her face as she picks up both of their plates, and Peter knows she’s thinking of Ben. He picks up the pan emptied of gnocchi and the cutting board that the asiago bread had been on and brings them to the sink where May has started to rinse their plates. 

 

It’s not like Peter has never considered that he was wildly overthinking this, and it’s not like he has never considered talking to Steve and Tony about it. 

 

It’s just. It sounds so ridiculous to even admit that it’s all been on his mind, that he wants answers to questions Steve and Tony would probably blanch to know he’d been asking.

 

And yet, hearing May say it so simply… even though she doesn’t know the context, even though she has no idea what the details are, it’s somehow still  _ relieving  _ to have it reduced to such simple answers. 

 

Anxiety isn’t a switch he can turn off and his feelings aren’t something he can order around but May is right. He is happier,  _ so much happier, _ when he’s lost in the moment and grounded with Steve and Tony, enjoying every minute he’s with them  _ as  _ he’s with them.

 

Peter’s not stupid, either. He knows how understanding the couple are. He knows that, really, without the bias of nerves, if he talked to them about this, it wouldn’t go badly. It might end with Peter feeling some degree of unavoidable embarrassment and awkwardness (and most likely, heartache) but Steve and Tony are so good at making him feel safe and comfortable, they never make him feel ashamed or insecure—and they’re so good at reading and understanding him. 

 

If Peter were to talk to them, even if he didn’t like the answer, it wouldn’t be a particularly scarring conversation. 

 

That doesn’t mean he has the courage to start the conversation, but. The point still stands that Peter should try to take May’s advice. He should just do his best to live in the moment and stop spending every spare (and not so spare) minute overthinking and re-overthinking his future.

 

~~He’s going to stop thinking about when Steve and Tony probably inevitably move on from their twink threesome phase and stop seeing him, because once they do stop seeing him, all he’ll have left are these memories, so he should stop tainting them with worry and sadness. Or at least, he can~~ ~~_ try _ ~~ ~~that.~~

 

“You’re right.” 

 

May smiles at him without looking at him. She finishes washing the plates with a sponge and hands them to Peter to rinse. 

 

“I know. And you’ll be careful, Peter?” 

 

He nods, humming his agreement, though he supposes it’s technically, mostly a lie. It’s a little late for him to skeptical of Steve and Tony’s intentions. Also, he’s trusted them  _ way  _ too much for months now, so. If they were going to murder him or trick him into becoming their slave or something, they definitely would have done it by now.

 

(And it’s only ten years. They’re only thirty ~~and looking damn good, too~~. He’s twenty. That’s not that bad, right?) 

 

“Good. You know I larb you, right?” 

 

Peter smiles, chuckling softly. “I larb you too.” 

 

May gives him a side hug and kisses his cheek, and then splashes him with some of the sudsy water pooled in the sink, so he sprays her for half a second with the pull-out faucet, and before he leaves the apartment, he has to change into a slightly too-small old chemistry pun t-shirt from his wardrobe left behind, because his shirt (and part of his jeans) is damp all over with sink water.

 

He changes back into a crew neck and some dry jeans at his apartment, finishing an assignment and touching up a folder of photos that the Bugle emailed to him. 

 

Another email comes in barely two minutes after he finally sends off the final edits of those photos. From Jameson with another folder of pictures four times as big as the first one, the only acknowledgement within the email that the first file of edits was even received is a ‘get these done faster’.

 

Four minutes after sending off the massive file folder, Peter gets another email from Jameson requesting he come in the next day for “every minute he’s not in class” (as if the man shouldn’t know by now that Peter doesn’t have in-class courses on Thursdays) with a passive aggressive request for him to actually skip his classes.

 

(Which,  _ damnit  _ Jameson. Theoretically it would be easy for Peter to watch his lecture video at work and actually spend the whole day at the Bugle, but for his boss to expect him to leave physical classes at his university to do overwhelming amounts of menial tasks? What a  _ dick _ .)  

 

Peter doesn’t see that email right away, though, because he takes a shower and puts his almost-fresh clothes back on afterwards. But he groans when he finally reads the message. 

 

He’s pretty sick of his job, yeah. 

 

He loves photography. It’s relaxing, it’s provocative, it’s fun. But god, the Daily Bugle is a murder zone. It’s a death sentence to his creativity and he’s about had it. 

 

A sudden passionate need to revolt against his shitty boss mixes with his lingering feelings about getting as much time and enjoyment with Steve and Tony as possible before the inevitable end, and he finds himself calling Tony’s cellphone at seven thirty. 

 

_ “Hey baby, what’s up?”  _

 

“Can I come over?”

 

_ “What? Yes, of course- are you, are you ok? Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need help, we can- we’ll come pick you up-” _

 

“No, no! It’s fine, I’m ok, not hurt or anything, you don’t need to come get me. I’m just stressed I guess. Wanna see you guys… If- if that’s ok. If that’s alright. I get if you’re busy or just don’t feel like hanging out tonight or whatever, that’s-”

 

_ “Not busy. Not busy at all. We’d love to have you come over. We can still come get you?”  _

 

“That’s alright, no thank you. Sorry for just dropping this on you out of nowhere-”

 

_ “It’s no problem, sweetheart. You could show up in our living room without any warning at all and we’d still be thrilled to see you, ok?” _

 

Peter laughs lightly. “Yeah, ok. I’ll- um- I’ll be there around eight, I guess? If that’s alright?” 

 

_ “That works wonderfully. We’ve got a ham coming out of the oven in twenty minutes for a late dinner, we’ll set a plate for you.”  _

 

“Thank you, Tony.” Peter decides there’s no point in saying he had already eaten, considering he’d feel rude to refuse the offer and also because a toasted peanut butter sandwich two hours ago probably didn’t count as dinner.

 

_ “You’re very welcome, angel. See you in a bit.” _

 

“See you in a bit.” Peter hangs up and barely pauses before pulling on his red and blue bomber jacket and slipping into loosely still-tied sneakers. He leaves his laptop on the couch, spitefully thinking that if the three-times-home-repaired computer loses power and dies before he gets home, then he’ll have an excuse not to check any more of Jameson’s emails. 

 

He takes the bus and gets to the couple’s house five minutes before eight, drumming quickly on their front door before letting himself in. 

 

He’s weirdly keyed up. A combination of pettiness and bitterness regarding his job plus adrenaline from his newfound motivation to enjoy every second spent with the couple and valiantly trying not to overthink anything all making him feel jittery.

 

Steve meets him at the door and takes his jacket from him, hanging it up while Peter kicks off his shoes. He’s so wound up that he’s almost ( _ almost _ ) brave enough to grab Steve’s shirt collar and kiss him, but concern for the man’s comfort stops him. 

 

And then all his thoughts cease completely for a few seconds when Steve gently grabs his chin and kisses him instead, long and soft and petting the younger man’s cheek with his thumb.

 

“Hey baby, you feelin’ ok?” Steve murmurs, lips moving against Peter's as he only barely pulls away to speak. Peter nods, takes a deep breath, then corrects himself with a shrug. 

 

“Work kinda sucks right now, but I had a really good lunch with my aunt. Just feelin’ antsy, I guess.” He says, leaning in and kissing Steve again. The older man hums, large hands hot and slipping under the waist hem of Peter’s crew neck to rest on his bare middle, pulling him closer. 

 

Steve deepens the kiss as much as he can while pulling Peter closer and closer until it’s more comfortable for them to break it and just hug. Peter tucks his face into the artist’s neck and Steve wrapps both arms entirely around the smaller's body under his sweatshirt. 

 

“Hmm, you’re here now. Maybe we can find some way to take the edge of you, huh?” Steve whispers into Peter’s hair, making the him shiver and shift his hips. “After dinner, of course.” The older adds, and Peter can feel the smirk pressed against his head. He resists the urge to grumble and protest the teasing. 

 

“Smells good, too. Ham?” 

 

“Mhm. You hungry?” Steve doesn’t pull away as he speaks but starts to back up, guiding Peter with him, still in his embrace. 

 

“A bit, yeah. Had a sandwich a while ago but it was small.” Peter mumbles, content to be held so closely and firmly. The security seeps into his skin and down to his bones and he has to consciously stop his knees from buckling.

 

As they enter the kitchen, a second pair of hands appear on Peter’s torso, under his arms, spanning the length of his rib cage and pressing down on the puffy crew neck to emphasize how lithe Peter is under the oversized top. 

 

“Hi sweet pea.” Tony sighs and pecks the crown of Peter’s head. 

 

“Hi Tony,” Peter giggles, the pressure of the man’s hands so close to his underarms ticklish. Tony hums in amusement but doesn’t press, backing off and letting Peter pull away from Steve so they can sit at the table. 

 

There are three placemats and plates out, and the couple leave the spot across from and in between theirs open, the chair closest to the counter that Peter always sits in. It makes him smile and puts warmth in his chest, even if he does feel like doing something mildly illegal to burn off his energy. 

 

(Maybe he should have called Wade instead?) 

 

“So what’s up, Pete? What’s got you so stressed out? Give us details and stress-eat this ham. It’s huge. I don’t want to eat leftover ham for the next three nights so I hope you’ve got a lot to work through.” Tony says, slicing thin pieces while Steve slides over a bowl of gravy. 

 

Peter laughs at the older man but then groans thinking about Jameson, sinking into his seat. “I don’t know. Ok wait, that was a lie, it’s just. Today has been a lot? I’m not sure what’s up with me but my lunch with my aunt was especially great and I feel, I dunno, hyped up by that but my boss is killing me and that’s both exhausting and makes me want to throw a spite-coup.” 

 

Tony snorts and Steve shakes his head, smiling and dishing out the slices of ham. “You sound like you have some energy to work off.” Tony observes. Peter only nods, bouncing his knee under the table.

 

(The ham is fucking delicious, because of course it is, because everything in this house is like a safe haven and he ultimate happy place and Peter wants it to swallow him whole.)

 

“It’s weird, because I kind of want to run a marathon and cure cancer, but I also want to set my office building on fire. But like, just a little one is my boss’s trash can that will get put out right away. More like an inconvenience to him. A lot of the people there are really nice actually, so definitely just an inconvenience to him. But a fire.” 

 

“Oh yeah, fire in his garbage can. That’ll show ‘im.” Steve smirks. Peter rolls his eyes but grins nonetheless. 

 

“He wants me to skip class tomorrow to go in to work.”

 

“I thought you didn’t have classes actually at your school on Thursdays?”

 

“I don’t, but he never bothered to remember that and thinks I do, and still wants me to skip. Can you believe that?! Jameson wants me to skip the classes I am paying for so I can edit photos I didn’t even get to take and fix the copy machine another twenty times.” He adds. His grin falters a little, turning into something disbelieving and irritated before he drops it entirely and shakes his head. “Sorry, now I’m just complaining. How was your day?” 

 

Steve makes a sound of disagreement and Tony leans back in his chair. “Woah woah, back up. You say this guy who barely pays you shit-” 

 

“He actually pays me pretty good, I mean, without my scholarship I wouldn't be able to have my own place and go to school but all things considered I lucked out-”

 

“This guy who pays you shit for how miserable he makes you, wants you to skip school—he wants you to prioritize doing the same jobs he could get ten other people to do over your education? Hell no.” 

 

Peter groans. “Yeah. I’m sorry I came over with zero warning and now I’m just talking shit, that’s my bad, but it sucks. It sucks.” 

 

That gets him two particular looks that he doesn’t see because he’s cutting up pieces of ham. He switches the conversation to the meal and how much he appreciates getting quality home cooked food, which just gets him side comments that he doesn’t know how seriously to take about how the husbands would gladly provide every meal for him.

 

It makes him feel fuzzy either way. 

 

Steve tells him about the three hour run-walk-occasionally-jog-plus-one-stop-for-croissants that he and Tony took that day and how they saw a dog walker with eight different terriers, and Tony talks about how he’s been thinking about a few projects that would heavily combine his mechanics focus with Dr. Bruce Banner’s recent research. 

 

Which gets Peter going on a whole tangent about his science crush, because, holy  _ shit _ . Dr. Banner is everything he aspires to be and more. Crazy intelligent, intuitive, and he gets to spend all the time he wants working in a lab, doing the research and making the discoveries, only doing all the work he  _ wants  _ that is actually _ in his field _ .

 

(No, Peter is not at all obsessive or bitter about this. He just thinks Dr. Banner is really cool and wants to do exactly what the man gets to do as opposed to fetching coffee and taking photos of local cafe bands instead of sunsets and pretty house plants.)

 

The three of them do the dishes together while Peter rambles about his absolutely-not-infatuation with Dr. Banner’s work, earning quips and fond glances from the couple. 

 

Later on, before he should really be getting home if he’s going to wake up early enough to avoid Jameson literally calling his cell phone and shouting at him to get his ass to work, completely inconsiderate of the poorly attempted twelve hour notice—he and Tony sit at the table while Steve makes hot chocolate behind them. 

 

He can only stay for a bit longer and feels kind of like a piece of shit for dropping by uninvited and only staying to eat their food and complain to them, but the company can’t be beat.

 

They listen, and allow him to change the subject when he feels like he’s getting annoying and repetitive without making him think that they want him to change the subject, and the conversation comes so easily that he forgets he’s supposed to be actively trying to live in the moment, and just enjoys their time. 

 

“You should come work at Stark Industries.” The comment comes (mostly) suddenly, Tony leaning on the table on his elbows, chin cradled by his hands, staring appraisingly at Peter. 

 

“You always say that.”

 

He does. Tony says that all the time, but neither he nor Peter ever make any genuine effort. It’s just a brushed off comment that usually simply means Tony dislikes Peter’s boss. 

 

(The offer is also often accompanied by Steve and Tony competitively insulting Jameson in increasingly creative ways until Peter is doubled over laughing.)

 

“I mean it, Pete. I’m serious this time. Come work with me. I have entire divisions of bio and chem research. I’d give you better hours and better pay, and you wouldn’t have to put up with Jameson anymore.”

 

“Tony, I- I can’t.” 

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t know, I just, I can’t do that.” Peter rubs his arms, shrinking in a little defensively. He doesn’t want to be a pest but it seems like a generally unavoidable trait at this point. Kind of a defining attribute if he’s honest. 

 

“Pete, come on. Be reasonable about this. I’m legitimately offering you a quality job that’s actually in your field. Besides, I— _ we _ —don’t like you working for that asshole, anyways. It’s not good for you.” Tony argues, tossing a hand out to gesture to Steve, who strolls over to the table balancing three mugs of hot chocolate at once.

 

Peter sighs, accepting his mug with a quiet ‘thank you’ and taking a sip before answering. “Aren’t there like… rules about having sex with your employees?” 

 

“I was fucking you long before this, it doesn’t count-”

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s a whole different set of rules, also, actually-”

 

“-and it doesn’t matter, because I own the joint.” Tony cuts him off. He stands up, walking around the table and leaning against it beside Peter, one arm on the hardwood in front of the younger, one on the back of Peter’s chair. He leans in close and smirks in a way that’s more playful than suggestive—still carrying the softness he must know he needs to handle this conversation delicately despite what he’s saying. “I can hire and have sex with whoever I want.” 

 

Peter shifts and bites his lip, shaking his head. “Look, Tony, I- I appreciate the offer, I really, really do, but I feel like I’d be, I don’t know, taking advantage of you or something. I haven’t done anything to earn that job,” he tries to explain.

 

“Peter, listen. I have something important to tell you, something that’s gonna change your life. Ready?” Tony reaches forward, grabbing Peter’s jaw and turning his face to the side and tipped up so he’s looking right at the older man. “You’re a fucking genius." _And Peter's cheeks turn scarlet_. "You’ve got so much going on in that beautiful head of yours, and there is a hell of a lot of genius in there, too. And you’re- you’re not taking advantage of me, kid, chrissake.”

 

Tony scoffs like just the idea is the most absurd thing in the world. “You’re smarter than most of the people I’ve ever met. You’d thrive in a Stark lab, you could do amazing things if you had the resources. I could use someone like that. I could use  _ you _ . So, really,  _ I’d  _ actually be taking advantage of  _ you  _ and your big ass brain. Besides,” Tony pulls away to stand behind Peter completely, firm hands falling to the smaller set of shoulders and massaging lightly, kneading into the perpetual tension.

 

“You could work with Dr. Banner.”

 

Peter gulps audibly but manages not to sputter his hot chocolate like an utter fool.

 

“Your man crush? Renowned scientist? Owner of seven PhDs?” Tony continues, dropping his head and leaning forward so his cheek is almost touching Peter’s as he talks to him. “Are you really gonna pass up the chance to work with  _ Doctor Bruce Banner _ ?”

 

Peter groans and face plants into his palms. Stupid, stupid bribe. And it is. It is a bribe. Peter is being conned and manipulated right now and he does not appreciate it at all. 

 

Except. Fuck. 

 

Tony rubs his back while he metaphorically buries his crisis and literally hides his face in his hands, Steve and Tony both remaining quiet while Peter chants ‘nope’ over and over again, muffled into the too-long sleeves of his crew neck. 

 

That goes on for nearly a couple minutes until he finally relents. He sighs deep and long and slowly bends forward until the only thing between his face and the table are his hands.

 

“Would I really get to meet Dr. Banner?” Peter mumbles. 

 

He peeks out to see Tony moving back beside him, smiling widely as he says, “Sweetheart, if you come to Stark Industries, you’ll get to do more than meet him. You’ll get to _work with_ Banner _every_ _day_. You can talk to him all you want. _Share a lab_ with him.”

 

Peter looks up fully at Tony with what probably qualifies as puppy dog eyes and bites his lip. “Are you serious? For real, actual serious?”

 

Tony kisses his forehead, a heavy hand on the back of his neck. “Completely serious, Pete. I seriously want you to take the job.”

 

Peter sighs after a few moments, defeated, nodding and humming and asking if he can think about it a little bit more. 

 

“Of course,” Tony says, but he turns his massive smile to Steve, a winning, proud look on both of their faces. The older men take that opportunity to shower Peter in little kisses, making him giggle and squirm to escape the onslaught until he tries to bolt from the kitchen and winds up tackled in the living room. 

 

Afterwards, once he has gone home and it’s so late at night that it’s actually morning, Peter stares at his phone alarms, wondering and debating and contemplating whether to turn them off or not (whether he’s going to no-show tomorrow and leave a message with Jameson’s secretary that he won’t ever be coming back to work… and then promptly block Jameson’s number on his cell and email) for Thursday morning, wondering if it’s worth it to text Ned or MJ or May (who should all be asleep by now).

 

He settles on texting Tony for details of exactly what job he’s being offered. 

 

(And he's still awake, replying in seconds, because of course he is.)

 

(The initial answer is “Literally whatever you want. I will pay you 60k a year to come doodle on the whiteboard in the break room for twenty minutes on alternating Tuesdays.” and Peter doesn’t know how serious  _ that  _ is, either.)

 

He eventually gets some information on a position that’s mostly made up for him (which leaves him with a kind of gross feeling in his stomach) but is based heavily on a real internship. Only, it’s like an internship to work with Tony and Dr. Banner and any other head of a department that might need him, if he so desires to go there, while also essentially having free rein in a lab so long as he makes progress in the company and someone is there to “help him out” (Tony Talk for "supervise"). 

 

In a turn of events Peter never saw himself having to do, he talks  _ down  _ his pay.

 

The salary Tony offers (combined with the informality of the ‘position’, like Tony would legitimately pay him that much to mess around in a lab) makes his stomach flip and hands shake and he has to insist and insist and almost gets to the point of calling Tony in tears (which he’s nearing) to try to explain that he cannot accept that much money for a “job” (privileges. It’s not a job, it’s a privilege) he has done nothing to earn. 

 

Luckily, Tony gets the picture and backs off, letting Peter have some breathing room and toning down his offers to something more reasonable. 

 

The point is that the deal only gets better and better and if MJ were there, she’d probably be lecturing him about dependency and debt and “tactics”—but MJ isn’t there, and every time Tony makes an offer too grand and nearly scares Peter off, he throws out the Dr. Banner mention and references Jameson’s shitty program again and the younger is helpless to agree. 

 

So Thursday at three in the afternoon (after sending two emails and blocking a certain number, turning off his alarms and waking naturally, comfortably and satisfied at eleven in the morning) Peter walks through the doors of Stark Industries already wearing a lanyard with his picture and name on it. 

 

A kind secretary and kinder security guard give him directions, apologizing in Tony’s place even though Tony already texted him seven times apologizing for not being able to meet him at the doors, and Peter finds his way into a very special lab that very few employee badges grant access to.

 

The glass door slides open and a disconnected voice from above (Friday, if Peter remembers correctly) welcomes him into the lab, and then the room’s sole resident sits up from a workbench he’d been leaning over, flipping up a pair of goggles and smiling softly at the young man in the entrance. 

 

“Hi, you must be Peter, right?” The man says, holding out his hand as he kind of awkwardly makes his way over. “I’m Dr. Banner, but please, call me Bruce.”

 

Peter almost passes out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing? Proofreading? Revising? I don't know them.
> 
> Sit tight lovelies bc there’s another chapter coming asap after this and we’re finally using the sex tags that I’ve had on this since first publishing, despite them not actually fucking yet.


	6. More Than A Neighborly Foot-In-The-Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: next up is the smut!  
> me: *writes a chapter introducing Dr. Banner and where they finally fuck*  
> the chapter: *is twice as long as previous chapters and not even done yet*
> 
> So I split it up! I apologize lol. This is a little slow and a little boring, sorry in advance, but know that when I say the whole chapter is literally one conversation, I mean it. (The last update was 70% dialogue? Ha! _This_ is 86% dialogue.)
> 
> Have this very short intro to Bruce Banner because the smut got way longer than it was supposed to. Speaking of, the next chapter is pure porn and almost completed, I just have to finish a bit and edit it and then I’ll update!!
> 
> p.s. in _theory_ I edited this. It was _hypothetically_ proofread, if you will.

“P-Peter.”

 

_ Shit _ . Holy  _ shit _ . 

 

“I-I mean, yes. That’s- that’s me, I’m Peter. It’s really nice to meet you, Dr. Banner. I’m- I’m a big fan of your work,” he corrects, swallowing hard and reaching out to take the older man’s extended hand. Bruce’s hair is sort of messy, a mop of curls that rivals Peter’s, safety goggles pinning some to his head, disheveled, untucked shirt with his sleeves rolled up and glasses slipping down his nose.

 

He reminds Peter of Tony. 

 

(And it probably shouldn’t, but anything similar to the couple just feels so overwhelmingly familiar, so it makes him relax just a little.)

 

Dr. Banner only smiles, bashful and reassuring both, giving Peter’s hand a solid squeeze and shaking it before letting go. “Yes, so I’ve heard. Tony mentioned. I hope you don’t mind.”

 

“Not at all,” Peter says. It’s pointless to fight the puppy joy and spark of panic he feels at knowing Tony has talked about Peter’s admiration for the other man, but he tries to keep his cool anyways. 

 

“He’s said a lot of great things about you Peter. I’m excited to get to work with you,” Bruce grins. 

 

Peter also bottles up that crushing pressure of not disappointing the scientist and puts on a smile. “The feeling is mutual. I’ve read, gosh, probably all of your essays on nuclear physics and genetic mutation and- and your work on gamma radiation is incredible. I, um, I wrote an analysis essay in one of my classes on one of your papers? ‘The Effects Of Ionizing Radiation On Human DNA’?” 

 

_ Stop talking stop talking you’re not here to be a  _ fanboy  _ goddamnit _ —

 

“Really?” Bruce blinks, eyes widening and leaning back a little in surprise. And he does look  _ genuinely  _ surprised, going by the redness to his cheeks. 

 

Which surprises  _ Peter _ , because, no shit???

 

“Y-Yeah, really. You’re kind of one of my science idols, I guess. Sorry, I- sorry, that’s weird, that’s a weird thing to say, um-”

 

“No no no, it’s fine! Completely fine! I’m, uh, I’m flattered. Just not used to it I guess.” 

 

“Oh,” Peter smiles softly, “Oh. Yup, Tony- Tony said you don’t really interact with a lot of fans, really.” 

 

“I’d hardly say I have  _ fans _ , but. I do tend to stick to the labs.” Bruce grins, shrugging with good nature and Peter lets out a breath.

 

“It’s probably a lot more comfortable in the labs, anyways.”

 

“Oh, definitely,” Bruce laughs, “I’m a, a bit of a recluse when it comes to work, if I’m honest. But I’ve been needing an assistant of sorts, and Tony thinks I could use the company.”

 

Peter grins, feeling butterflies at the idea of assisting the renowned scientist. “Well, I’m happy to do both.” 

 

It earns him another good natured laugh. Dr. Banner’s smile—in fact his whole disposition—is good natured. A little nervous, kind of uncomfortable and modest and reserved, but open and kind. He certainly fits the bill of a well-meaning genius lacking a knack for social interaction.

 

There’s something comforting in the sheer humanity of that. 

 

“And I’m very glad to have you here. Make no mistake, this wasn’t exactly my idea but… I suppose I am fond of the concept. I have a lot going on in here and it’d be nice to have someone around to help me out. That’s not to say you’re going to be at my beck and call, of course. This lab is as much yours as it is mine, now. One of the conditions of this arrangement is your exploration and unique, creative productivity.” Banner pauses, adjusting his glasses. 

 

“That’s, that’s corporate talk for ‘you get to work on your own stuff’.” He adds, looking momentarily out of place before tugging the goggles off his head. Peter nods enthusiastically.

 

(What? He spends all his time with socially inclined people that he's also very close to—Ned, MJ, May, Wade, _Steve, Tony_ —he's not used to feeling like he's on even ground with someone.)

 

“Yeah, yeah. And I’m really excited for that, too. I mean, the closest I’ve gotten to a place like this is probably the graduate lab at my school, and even that is,” he makes a so-so gesture with his hand and Bruce smiles in understanding. “But honestly, even if I was just here to help you out, I’d be more than happy about it.”

 

_ Shut up before you make it awkward. _

 

Dr. Banner almost looks like he  _ blushes  _ for a moment before laughing it off. 

 

_ Too late. _

 

“I-” he clears his throat, “I appreciate that a lot, Peter. I know I’m not the best at taking compliments-”  _ you and me both, _ “-but I promise I’m charmed. Usually the only people I talk to about work are the other stuffed shirts I have the displeasure of presenting to now and again at SI conventions, and they tend to be unimpressed with me.” 

 

After a second of processing, Peter bursts out a laugh at that. So Bruce Banner is socially awkward, kind, down to earth, and  _ funny. _

 

(He’s smart  _ and  _ a cool person. When did Peter die and go to heaven?) 

 

“I promise I didn’t show up intending to be sucking up to you, but I really can’t imagine not being impressed with the kinds of breakthroughs you’ve made.” 

 

Banner snorts and cleans his glasses with the edge of his purple button up. (It’s certainly a good color on him.)

 

(Peter doesn't want to be ~~that guy~~ and he's fairly certain that he's not, but. The man is not unattractive. He's not even unappealing. Quite the opposite.)

 

~~ (As if he needs another reason to get a science boner for the man.) ~~

 

“Imagine being the kind of people who think publishing a single research essay every ten years gives them the same qualifications as spending day after day in a lab making the actual breakthroughs. Then imagine that these are also the people who are unimpressed with SI as a whole and only pretend to be interested because they want in on our superior marketing team.” 

 

Peter giggles. “So  _ that’s  _ what other companies really envy, then. They’re after the marketing secrets. And here I was thinking it was the engineers and the products.”

 

The other man groans exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes. “That’s exactly what Stark’s marketing team  _ wants  _ you to think.”

 

They bust out into laughter and Peter feels the bubbling nervous energy in his stomach and under his heels simmer, settle, so he steps a little further into the lab, taking it in again in more detail.

 

“I’m sure Tony wants to give you the full tour of his favorite lab to invade and disrupt,” Dr. Banner begins, making Peter bite his cheek to keep from grinning bigger than what’s strictly polite, “but we could easily start without him if you’re interested.” 

 

Peter nods, stepping closer again. “I’d like that a lot, thanks. I’m usually pretty good with lab equipment but I’ll be honest, I don’t recognize half of the stuff in here.” Dr. Banner nods along. 

 

“Yeah, there’s quite a bit in here that most of the public isn’t privy to. Even tech schools have trouble getting equipment like this, but then again, we are doing a lot of specialized research. It does seem like a lot, I know, but you get used to it and pick up on everything pretty quick.” He comforts.

 

Peter tries to memorize each detail as Dr. Banner starts describing different machines, but his brain is stuck on the arrangement of petri dishes at the older man’s original work station and there are so many more pieces of equipment than Peter thought—stacked on top of each other, side by side, in cupboards and under desks.

 

It’s definitely going to take him some time to get this all down. And that makes him absolutely  _ delighted, _ because holy  _ shit, _ he has the  _ privilege  _ of being overwhelmed with extremely high tech machinery in an  _ SI lab  _ that he’s going to share with  _ Dr. Bruce Banner.  _

 

Just a few minutes in, while Banner is elaborating (at Peter’s questioning) on the contents of the petri dishes, he pauses, cutting himself off. 

 

“Oh, um. Speaking of Tony Stark, he’s on his way down, will be here any second. He thought he should be the one to start us off, I suppose, considering we’re both here because of him. He’s an old friend of mine, but he told me you had been neighbors, before he and the other Mr. Stark-Rogers moved into their new house?” 

 

(Right, right. Dr. Banner doesn’t know that he’s been a lot more than  _ friendly neighbors  _ with the couple)

 

For some reason that stings a little. Peter won’t get into it. 

 

~~ In May’s voice:  ~~

 

~~_ Enjoy what you have when you have it. _ ~~

 

~~_ You aren’t doing yourself any favors by worrying about this. _ ~~

 

~~ And then:  ~~

 

~~_ They didn’t want anyone else. Love’s like that. _ ~~

 

Ouch. What a whiplash. 

 

“We were, yeah. They lived just one apartment down from mine, we’d stop and talk a lot and they’d bring me leftovers sometimes, ‘cause they know I’m in college and sometimes food gets a little… dollar-store-y.” Peter laughs.

 

In between freaking out about quitting his job with barely eight hours notice and freaking out about meeting  _ the  _ Doctor Banner, Peter hadn’t had much time to freak out over what other people’s impression of him and his relationship to Tony would be.

 

Outside of the initial panicked phone call—where Tony reassured him that as far as everyone else is concerned, Peter happened to be a job hunting genius with a neighborly foot in the door while Tony was looking for some lab help—Peter had resigned himself to worrying about the whole public image afterwards and focusing on the more pressing matters.

 

Now he’s getting hit with a healthy dose of all of it; still freaking out about meeting Bruce Banner and also having a crisis about  _ Bruce Banner _ finding out that Peter has been having sex with both Tony and his husband since the fall. 

 

(At least he’s fucking Steve  _ and  _ Tony, emphasis on the  _ and, _ as opposed to fucking Steve and also fucking Tony like a homewrecker or something and wait oh wait oh  _ god  _ is Peter going to become a homewrecker?!)

 

Jesus christ, what if Dr. Banner thinks that Peter screwed Tony to get a job here? The younger might actually combust if the man he idolizes thinks that he slept with their mutual friend and employer just to share a lab with him. 

 

Peter’s working himself into a panic attack now just thinking about it. 

 

(What happens if people find out that Tony pulled this “job” out of his ass for Peter just because they have  _ sex  _ and the younger was complaining about his old boss? Will Peter get in trouble? Will  _ Tony  _ be in trouble?

 

They talked and Peter fretted on the phone last night but he doesn’t want to get Tony in trouble! What if it makes his coworkers and peers and friends think differently of him, because he gave his and his husband’s whatever-the-hell-Peter-is a job, just because he could?

 

What if this leaves some kind of mark on future employment or opportunities for Peter? What if people won’t want to work with him or hire him because they somehow found out that he got the most sophisticated, refined, advanced occupation of his working career by having sex with the head of SI?)

 

Dr. Banner is going to find out and every chance Peter had at even being so much as peers with the man will go down the gutter and he’ll never be able to show his face in Midtown Manhattan again without someone recognizing him as the kid who fucked the  _ married Stark-Rogers _ couple and—

 

“I don’t think ‘dollar-store-y’ quite describes canned tomato soup for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, four days in a row just because it was on sale, but. Whatever floats your boat, Pete.” A familiar voice yanks Peter from his mind and he spins on his heels to see Tony strolling into the lab. 

 

(Talk about timing. Say his name three times, and he shall appear.)

 

Peter has seen business Tony quite frequently, but he’s now realizing that it is rarely in the context of his business.  Getting home from or leaving for work, tie already loosened or in the process of being tightened, suit jacket slung over his arm.

 

Business Tony in the midst of business is. 

 

Hot. 

 

He’s hot. 

 

His hair is still styled, not yet mussed by running hands through it, suit straight and crisp and he looks like a strike, formal and in charge and  _ shit  _ this would be  _ such  _ a bad time to get hard.

 

“Tony, long time no see. What’s it been? Two hours? Two and a half?” Banner jokes. Peter laughs, partially genuine and partially because he’s nervous, and Tony seems to pick up on the subtle tension. His eyes flash to Peter in that analytical way he seems to see straight through the younger. Picks up on every tick, every tiny shudder, the fluttering breath. He strolls up to the other two men, grinning, not drawing attention to Peter’s present  _ condition. _

 

“I just missed you so terribly, I had to come back,” he begins. One hand comes to rest on Peter’s back, grounding and solid and tugging him away from the derailed train of anxiety and back into the moment. “Breathe, kiddo, he won’t disappear if you blink.”

 

(It’s played off as a crack at Peter’s obvious worship of Dr. Banner, but he and Tony both know the gentle  _ “Breathe”  _ is meant to calm him down. Tony’s good like that. He’s good at catching Peter’s nerves going off and mind getting carried away, though as much as the younger appreciates it, he does feel his stomach sink when he remembers that Tony’s good this way because he’s got so much experience with that mess of emotions himself.)

 

The hand on the younger man’s back rubs up and down while Tony charms his friend with a grin, and Peter sinks back into his body. His body here, in the lab, where Tony is his companion and Dr. Banner is an acquaintance who sees nothing more between his intern and boss but friendship. 

 

Right. 

 

Peter could not have possibly lucked out more in his life, to have been handed this opportunity on a silver platter the way he was. He promised himself he’d earn it by working his ass off to pay back Tony with progress and productivity in a lab—and Dr. Banner is going to help him do that. 

 

Nobody  _ suspects  _ anything. Nobody thinks anything bad.

 

Everything is fine, and Tony’s here now. 

 

“But really, Brucie Bear-”  _ what?  _ “-I wanted to be here when you met Peter. He’s an exceptionally bright kid, and he already likes you! That’s half the battle right there. I think you guys are going to do some really great stuff in here—when I’m not stealing him from you, of course.”

 

Bruce snorts at Tony’s remark. “You can sure as hell try. You gave me an intern? I’m keeping him. Go get your own,” he huffs. His voice stays calm and steady and his expression soft, and he only met Peter a couple of minutes ago, but the joke still lands, lighthearted and amusing. 

 

“You should know, Tony, that I will choose Dr. Banner over you any day. Any day.” 

 

That earns him a celebratory “Ha!” and a scandalized gasp. “What is this? My own intern turning against me? What kind of cruel trick of fate?! How did you manage to brainwash him away from me in five minutes?” Tony’s hand stays on Peter’s shoulder, even as they turn to face each other as equally as they face Bruce. 

 

“With witchcraft and ‘The Effects Of Ionizing Radiation On Human DNA’, I believe.” Bruce grins gently, looking to Peter with raised brows. The younger nods eagerly, and  _ woah _ , maybe Dr. Banner will talk with him about the paper? His essay left so many unanswered questions, so many open ends in the paper alluding to Dr. Banner’s further research that has, for the most part, yet to be published. 

 

Could they talk about it? He’d gladly sit down with a notepad or his awful laptop and do nothing but listen and ask questions and take notes for hours on end if Dr. Banner would let him. Maybe he can ask? He could ask Tony about it, too, but,  _ god _ , with Bruce right there? Peter is going to lose his mind with excitement. 

 

“Ionizing Radiation On—?! After all I’ve done for you? I gave you a lanyard, I let you pick a photo instead of having the secretary take one, I gave you a  _ lanyard- _ ” 

 

“You said that one already-”

 

“-and you betray me for gamma radiation? The treachery stings, honestly.” Tony laments, suddenly throwing his arm around Peter’s neck and tugging him in close, putting a hand to his forehead. 

 

“Are you ill? Does he have you under some kind of spell?” 

 

“No spell, Tony. Accept your defeat and move on,” Bruce sighs dramatically, standing up and approaching them with his hands in his pockets, looking like the most open person Peter has seen in a long time.

 

Then he smirks and Peter thinks, yeah, Dr. Banner might be eons calmer and less of an outward drama queen than Tony, but that shit-eating grin is unmistakable. 

 

(Must be a genius thing.)

 

“I have an intern to train.” 

 

For all the playfulness, that makes Peter beam and earns him one cautiously excited grin from Bruce, and one obscenely proud smile from Tony—looking up at the older man from his loose headlock and seeing all the encouragement and pride and softness and  _ fuck _ , Peter really  _ really  _ likes this guy. 

 

~~(Really~~ ~~_ really  _ ~~ ~~likes him and his stupid beautiful considerate husband.)~~

 

Bruce  _ (Dr. Fucking Bruce Banner!) _ is already supportive and funny and Tony is there with him, safe and careful, and everything is okay and alright and not totally off the rails chaotic and catastrophic, and for the first time since texting the engineer that yes, he’d like the job—Peter feels like he can breathe. 

 

So maybe the whole thing isn’t going to be as terrifying as he thought. 

 

Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, for someone with a meticulously planned plot for this fic, I sure don’t have any fucking control whatsoever over this story. Just. None whatsoever. Who is in charge here? Sure as hell is not me.

**Author's Note:**

> In retrospect: I contaminated my smut with feelings, that's what happened. 
> 
> Fucked up some perfectly good porn is what I did. Look at it, it's got anxiety.
> 
>  
> 
> finally made a tumblr, wanna talk about spider man ? @ bitter-lemon-water


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